


a heaven off the ground

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Divorce, Eventual Healing, M/M, Post-Divorce, Trying to move on, and possibly reconciliation?, i promise a happy ending so do not be afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Stevie's sitting on his couch, watching American television, when he realizes his doesn't miss his husband anymore.He goes home for the holidays and does the only thing he can do."I want a divorce."(In which Stevie and Jamie have been married for eight years and the aftermath of their divorce)
Relationships: Steven Gerrard/Jamie Carragher
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Stevie’s sitting on his couch, watching American television, and he realizes, in a quiet moment, after he’s finished laughing at a stupid advertisement, that he doesn’t miss his husband.

_I don’t miss him_, he thinks to himself again. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine Jamie’s face, and it comes to his mind quickly, but he doesn’t feel that awful pang in his chest, that ache of wanting something so badly it physically _hurts_.

He doesn’t feel a single goddamn thing.

_Huh. _

He interrogates the feeling—or lack thereof—for the next few days, the way a child who’s lost a tooth can’t quite keep his tongue from investigating the bloody socket.

There’s a numbness to it, like he’s bleeding, but it doesn’t hurt.

He takes off his wedding ring, just for a few minutes, and looks at the platinum circle.

He considers it. It’s the last thing he takes off before he gets changed for training or a match, and it’s the first thing that goes back on, before he’s even gotten into the shower, sometimes even before he’s stripped off his training kit.

He takes it off and looks at his finger, at the bareness of it, at the little tan line and the pale skin that’s always covered by the metal.

He slips it back on, only to find it doesn’t quite sit right anymore—it itches against his skin.

\---  
  


He’s missed home. He’s missed everything about it—the familiarity, the comfort, the people, the smallness of it and the kindness of it and the warmth of it. It’s not particularly warm in December, of course, but it’s just so wonderful, being back at home again.

Jamie picks him up from the airport, pulling him into his arms and hugging him tight. For just a moment, Jamie tucks his face against Stevie’s neck and inhales, probably closing his eyes the way he had done in that first moment on their wedding day, after they had said _I do_, after they had kissed.

A lot of the things he’d missed about home are true about Jamie, too. He’s familiar, for the most part, and he’s warm, and when they get home, they kiss and cuddle and Jamie tells him how much he’d missed him, how awful it had been to be apart, how he couldn’t wait for him to get back.

Stevie lies to his husband, and tells him it was exactly the same for him. There’s a strangeness in the air between them now, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. They’ve never had that before, not once in the twenty years they’ve known each other, not once in the fifteen since they started dating, or in the eight since they got married.

They crawl into bed that night, and when Jamie slips a hand under Stevie’s shirt, pressed against the flesh of his back and moving with intent, Stevie shifts away and mutters that he’s tired, that it’s been a long flight.

“Fuck, of course it has,” Jamie apologizes, sounding genuinely remorseful, “sorry, love, of course you just want to rest tonight.”

Stevie will admit it is nice to still be held, in the middle of it all, to know the rise and fall of Jamie’s chest against his back, to know the strength in the arm laying carelessly across his stomach. It is something, to know exactly how they fit together, to know that Jamie’s knees fit right against his when they both bend their legs and lay down on their side.

It doesn’t last, because they both move around when they sleep. But it’s something, the press of Jamie’s lips against his neck, the quiet whisper of three familiar words, uttered by a familiar voice.

\---  
  


They settle into a rhythm of sorts—Stevie goes out and trains with Liverpool, Jamie studies match footage and injury updates and tactical preferences of managers. He goes to Gary’s place in Manchester, where they sit and talk about the show over lunch, and Stevie feels a strange absence of feelings about it.

He thinks back to those first few weeks—those first few months, watching his husband on air with Gary Neville, watching their banter and feeling a fierce, bitter jealousy, not because he thought Jamie might leave him, but because Gary got to be _there_, and he was stuck all the way over _here_, halfway around the fucking world.

\---  
  


They’re sitting on the sofa, watching telly absently, Jamie with his head in Stevie’s lap, smiling when Stevie scratches at his hair in just the right way.

Finally, Stevie can’t take it. He turns off the tv.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly.

Jamie looks at him and sits up, and Stevie can’t quite read what’s in his eyes.

“What do we need to talk about?” he asks cautiously.

“It—this isn’t working anymore,” Stevie says, and his voice suddenly sounds like it belongs to someone else.

Jamie recoils, as if he’d physically hit him, and he’s flushed, cheeks and neck all red.

“I think we should call it,” Stevie continues.

“There’s not really any _we_ involved if _you_ make the decision,” Jamie says bitterly, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“I just think it’s time—“

Jamie’s on his feet, suddenly. “You’re a fucking _coward_,” he hisses, “say the word. Say it. You want a divorce.”

“I—I guess I do.”

“Then fucking _say_ it,” Jamie orders.

“I want a divorce.” The words taste acidic in Stevie’s mouth, but it’s nothing compared to how Jamie goes suddenly ashen.

“I’m taking the spare bedroom,” he says simply, “and _fuck you_, Steven. Fuck you for doing this to us.”

He turns and runs—not up the stairs, but to the cabinet where they keep the car keys.

All Stevie can do is watch him leave, watch him run outside in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms in December because Jamie suddenly can’t stand to be in the same building as him. He wants so badly to tell him to wait, to ask him to put on a jacket, at least, or not to leave at all. Stevie can go—he doesn’t have to.

He has the whole conversation in his head, in the room alone, shivering slightly from the chill that he’d felt when Jamie’d opened the door.

He sighs, a long, slow exhale that feels loud in the now-silent house. He shouldn’t, probably, because he’s getting close to preseason—

He opens the liquor cabinet anyway, and pulls out the scotch.

There’s probably an exception to the no-alcohol rule anyway, for when your marriage has just gone down in flames and it’s all your fault.

And if there isn’t, well, the Galaxy can just be mad at him. He doesn’t care one little bit.

It’s bittersweet without the sweet, the sharp liquid sliding down his throat. He drinks until he can almost stand his own company, and then he drinks some more, until getting up the stairs is a bit of a risky proposition.

He goes up anyway. Maybe Jamie would forgive him if he came back to Stevie with a broken leg from falling down the goddamn stairs in a drunken stupor. He goes up on all fours, like a child just learning how to walk. When he makes it to the top, he feels a moment of regret, because he would have deserved it, falling down the stairs. He would have deserved worse than that.

But he doesn’t, and he staggers up to his feet, stumbling into the bedroom, into the bed that with sheets that still smell like Jamie. The smell calms him down, somehow, just for a moment, and it’s enough to let him fall asleep.

He wakes up some time later, and he doesn’t have the faintest idea of the time. But he can hear footsteps on the stairs and he hopes, with every inch of his drunk, awful self, that Jamie will come to bed. He stares at the doorway, waiting and praying that Jamie will take the invitation of the open door, will come in and scream at him, will come and hit him, anything to make him feel better.

He doesn’t. There’s the click of a door opening down the hall, and then another quiet click, as it closes behind him.

The walls are thin. They don’t have kids or pets and they don’t usually have company, so it’s never bothered them before, but Stevie curses it now.

The walls are thin, and through them, he can hear Jamie crying in the next room, the soft, wet hitches of his breath.

Stevie stays awake, listening to his husband sobbing in the spare room while he’s surrounded by his scent, and he wishes he’d never opened his stupid fucking mouth.

Stevie doesn’t manage to sleep for more than five minutes at a time the whole night. He wakes when his legs drift over to Jamie’s side of the bed, when he reaches out and feels the cool sheets instead of his husband’s chest.

For the first time in weeks, he feels something. The regret makes it hard to even breathe. He’s so terribly, genuinely sorry that Jamie’s suffering for his own stupidity.

\---

They’re still in the same house. This is the thing that makes Stevie feel like he might suffocate, like there’s no oxygen left.

They’re in the same house.

It used to be a _home_, he thinks to himself, in the midst of a hangover from hell that he decides he won’t even take any medication for, because he deserves it.

He throws up in the toilet and chugs a little bit of mouthwash. His head is pounding, and the pain is—something, at least, where there had been so much nothing before.

He goes downstairs.

Jamie’s there, sitting at the kitchen counter and staring blankly into his coffee, as if he can find the answers there. His knuckles are all torn up, as if he hit something, and that—that sounds about right. Jamie’s never taken his anger out on him before, not once. Not even when he deserved it. That doesn’t mean he’s never been angry. Or in pain.

“J—“ Stevie’s voice cracks on the word, “J—I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t leave me,” Jamie whispers, voice full of so much pain that Stevie hates himself even more. “Please. We can work it out. We’ll go to counseling. I’ll even move out there with you, break the contract with Sky. I’ll go to LA for you, if that’s what we need. Please. _Please_—“

It’s a punch in the gut, because on the one hand, Stevie just wants to take the whole thing back, wants to go back to playing happy husband to a man who truly deserves it.

But on the other hand, he wants the whole thing to be over. He doesn’t want to feel this thing in his chest, in his stomach, like he’s dying. He doesn’t want to feel the weight of a bond that doesn’t do anything for him. He doesn’t want to feel the guilt, of lying to his husband, to the one person he’s never lied to—until now.

“Do you really think it’s going to make a difference, Jaybird?” He asks, trying to keep his voice gentle.

“_Don’t_—you don’t get to call me that, not right now, maybe not ever again,” Jamie mumbles.

“Do you honestly think it’s going to make a difference, James?” He repeats, still gentle, not wanting to hurt him anymore.

“_Yes!_ I don’t know—but _fuck_, Steven, are you really ready to just _give up?!_ I _love _you—“ Jamie says, desperate.

Stevie can see for the first time how red and irritated his eyes are, how much he must have cried.

“I don’t—“ he starts. Jamie flinches, as if he’s just been struck, and Stevie regrets the words, regrets the implication. “It’s just not the same anymore, is it? I was lonely, I wanted company, but I didn’t miss—well, I started wanting anybody I could have, and I couldn’t _have_ you, anymore. Not when you’re here and I’m there. And how are we going to make therapy work? I’m going back after New Years—“

He watches a tear drip into Jamie’s coffee, listens to him breathe as if it’s a struggle, to pull oxygen into his lungs.

He watches, as Jamie takes off his wedding ring and sets it on the counter. He gets up and goes upstairs, leaving Stevie behind.

He reaches for the mug and takes a sip, tasting the hint of salt amidst the bitter, unsweetened coffee.

\---  
  


Jamie comes back down the stairs a few minutes later, and the front door opens and shuts behind him, and then he’s gone.

\---  
  


He sits in the driveway of his in-laws’ house, holding a box in hands that can’t help but shake. He looks at his eyes, still a little bloodshot despite the fact that he’d been basically _pouring_ eye drops into them to make them look less awful.

He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, walking up the drive.

“Hi, Mrs. Gerrard,” he says softly, when Stevie’s mother opens the door. He knows immediately that it’s a mistake—how many years has it been since he’d last called her that? He can see the look on her face, the worry, the surprise, the caution, and he pushes past it. He doesn’t want to explain—he doesn’t know if he can explain this, not without breaking down in front of a house that shouldn’t mean anything to him anymore.

“I just wanted to drop off my present for Steven—I’ve got to go up to London tonight, we’re going to be shooting all day tomorrow and they like us to be up the night before. So could you just—just make sure he gets this?”

She nods and takes the present, pulling him in for a hug. “Take care of yourself, James,” she says softly, and it almost makes him break down all over again.

“You too,” he says instead of agreeing, “give him my love. Happy Christmas.”

Then he’s back in the car, heading to the train station and wishing like hell that it was the middle of summer, when he could run away somewhere and hurt in private.

He sleeps for most of the train ride, because he can’t really stand to do anything else. He gets a cab to the hotel he stays at, and when he’s there, he drinks a little more than a little and falls asleep around four to the sound of football on telly.

\---  
  


Stevie goes home for Christmas. Jamie’s off to London, and it’s almost like he can breathe again. Almost. He can pull air into his lungs, it just feels like there’s a rock on his ribs.

He says hullo to his mother, who looks at him hard. He wonders if it’s on his face. He wonders if everyone can see it—that his marriage has just fallen apart.

His nephews are there and he gives them a big hug and roughhouses with them on the rug for a little while, listening to their shrieks of laughter.

He remembers how Jamie used to watch him do this, how he’d have this softness to his eyes. He’d asked him once, what he was thinking about. Jamie had demurred at first, but admitted eventually that he’d been wondering if Stevie would be like that with their own kids, someday. He’d had this flush on his face as he admitted it, and Stevie couldn’t help himself—he’d had to kiss him, right then and there.

They eat dinner and the kids run upstairs to go play with their new toys.

Stevie’s mother takes out a little box, wrapped perfectly, and holds it out for him.

“It’s from Jamie,” she says quietly, studying his face, “he came by to give it to me.”

The air gets sucked completely out of Stevie’s lungs. His fingers tremble a little bit as he takes it, just looking at the paper, imagining Jamie’s hands wrapping the box.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Paul prompts.

“Yeah—yeah, course I’m gonna open it.”

He doesn’t rip the paper, just pulls at the tape carefully, gently pulling the paper away from the box and then opening it.

There are two notes.

The first one—Jamie must have written it after last night. The words are sloppy, as if he’d been drunk while writing.

_Steven— _

_Do whatever you want with it—you can throw it away, even. I just can’t have it in the house anymore and it can’t be returned._

Then there’s the second note—Jamie must have forgotten to take it out. It’s older, neater.

_For the love of my life—_

_Merry Christmas._

_Next year I promise I’ll take time off from Sky so we can celebrate properly. _

_Love you always, _

_Jaybird_

His eyes stare at the paper, filling with tears. He blinks and one of them spills onto the note, and he’s quick to wipe it, not wanting the ink to run.

He looks inside the box, and it’s a watch, engraved with their initials and the date of their wedding.

_I hope time flies_, it says underneath it, _so you can come home to me._

He inhales shakily and goes to the bathroom to try to pull himself together. As soon as he shuts the door, he lets himself slide down to the floor and looks at the finger where his ring used to be, and he cries.

He cries for the hurt he’s doing to someone he cares about more than he can say. He cries for the fact that he’s alone now, and for the fact that his mother is outside and doesn’t _know_.

He cries for the fact that Jamie’s sleeping in a hotel room in London tonight, all on his own, and he cries for the fact that Jamie missed him so much that he’d gotten him this gift.

He cries for the fact that his drunk, broken-hearted husband had sat up yesterday, so drunk he could barely see straight, and had written him a note, because there was nothing else he could do.

\---

It’s an early morning, and Jamie hasn’t gotten nearly enough rest, so he drinks two cups of coffee with breakfast, generous with the sugar, and catches another cab to the studio. When he gets to the studio, he draws on lessons he’d learned long ago about how to compartmentalize. He thinks back to the first match after his parents had gotten divorced, the first match after Michael had left, and he remembers how he’d imagined reaching inside his own chest and just switching off his heart. He remembers how he’d felt a little bit numb and a little bit disconnected, a little floaty as he walked through the world.

They hadn’t been his best performances, but he’d managed to put in a decent shift both times. At least now, he’s allowed to drink. He smiles at his own grim thoughts.

“What’s so funny, Carra?” Gary calls, walking briskly to catch up to him.

“Thinking about eggnog,” Jamie mutters, looking at him.

Gary stops dead in his tracks. “Wait, what the hell happened to you? You look awful!”

“Feeling a bit under the weather, had a bit of a head cold,” Jamie lies, “kept me up last night, that’s all. I haven’t lost my voice, though, so I’ll be fine to do the show, no problem at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

All day, Gary keeps looking at him. This shouldn’t be a novel experience—cohosting a show with someone typically involves a fair bit of eye contact, and it’s just the polite thing to do when you’re talking to someone beforehand.

But Gary keeps looking at him, as if he’s afraid that he’ll break from one tough blow.

The first match goes by fine—it’s Manchester United against Chelsea and Jamie lets himself lean on Gary a little more, and they have Cesc Fabregas (out because of an injury) in as a guest pundit for the match, and that helps.

It’s in between the first match and the blitz of matches that kick off at 3 that Gary notices. It’s another one of those glances Gary’s been throwing him all day long, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Frankly, it’s a little annoying, and Jamie wishes for a moment, that he could stop with the façade for a few minutes. At least until the buildup for the next round of matches starts.

“Oh my god,” Gary mutters, leaning in close, “you’re not wearing your wedding ring.”

“Good fucking eye, Neville,” Jamie says dryly, with an edge to his voice that Gary hasn’t quite heard before.

He pulls Jamie aside, off to somewhere quiet. “You got a divorce?”

“Separated,” Jamie says almost in a whisper, “until we get the papers signed.”

“J, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Go home, call out for the day, you’re in no state—“

“Why go home?” Jamie asks, voice brittle, “not like anybody’s waiting for me there.”

“Maybe you can work it out—“

“I haven’t even told my parents yet,” Jamie admits quietly, “if I go home, I have to face it—he’s still at our house, until after New Years—I just can’t go back yet. I want to—I want to at least _act_ like I’m okay, the next time I see him.”

“What are you gonna do?” Gary asks softly, laying his hand on Jamie’s shoulder and leaning in close to lend his support.

“I—I just don’t know,” Jamie whispers. “I just can’t see him, I can’t—I just keep thinking about telling my parents, and how disappointed Dad’s gonna be, and Mum’s gonna cry for days—“

“Oh, _J_,” Gary murmurs, and he wraps his arms around Jamie and holds onto him tight.

“Stop,” Jamie begs, “stop or I’m going to fall apart, Gary. Don’t be nice to me, not right now. I can’t handle it—just, let’s just try for normal.”

“How about five minutes of this, and then we’ll go for normal?” Gary asks him, and his voice is so gentle, so tender, that Jamie can’t help but give in. He nods against Gary’s shoulder and clings to him tight.

He inhales Gary’s cologne and his brain immediately compares it to Stevie’s—Gary’s is a little more sedate, not quite as bright, and it’s not the familiar scent that Jamie associates—associated, at least—with love.

He can feel himself starting to cry, and Gary doesn’t say a word, just begins to rock a little bit back and forth, making quiet shushing sounds.

Finally, he pulls away, and Gary lets him.

“Sorry about your sweater—“ Jamie says wearily, looking at the damp spot near Gary’s shoulder.

Gary waves away the apology and stands up, pulling him by the arm to the toilet for some tissues to blow his nose and wipe his eyes. Jamie splashes some cold water on his face and stands up, looking at middle-aged divorcé Jamie Carragher in the mirror. It’s not a pretty sight, but the head cold explanation will probably hold up, now that Gary knows. He goes for the eye drops again, and makeup fixes his face so it’s not quite so blotchy and red.

“How do I look?” he asks Gary, in the moment before they start rolling.

“You look great. You can do this,” Gary says firmly, “and if you can’t, you step out whenever you need to, we’ll figure it out.”

\---

Jamie’s mother knows something is wrong. She hasn’t seen her son-in-law much this winter, and while she knows Christmas is crazy for her eldest son, he and Stevie usually come around some time before New Year’s, and Stevie always, always calls, if nothing else.

This year, she gets a text from Jamie, who doesn’t respond to her sending a family photo to him, and doesn’t pick up the phone when she calls.

Two days later, her son is in her living room, and he can’t quite meet her eyes. He folds his fingers together.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, wishing he would just look at her.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he admits. He sounds tired. He _looks_ tired, too, tired and a little bit sad.

“Tell me, James, I’m your mother, I can handle it.”

“I’m—well, we’re splitting up,” Jamie says softly, “getting divorced.”

She sits there, stock-still. “But you love him,” she says blankly.

He looks down and swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says, voice shaky, “I do. God, Mum, I do, _I do,_ that’s why this is so hard—“

And then her son, in his forties, with his biceps and his cheekbones and a few days’ stubble on his face, breaks down crying, so hard he can’t even breathe. She holds him while he cries, rocking him like she would when he was a small boy, coming home with skinned knees. But this is a hurt she doesn’t know how to help with. A kiss and a hug won’t make this one go away. She can barely remember what Jamie was like without Stevie—for so long they’ve been a pair—

Her boy is clinging to her, too big to crawl into her lap, but she’d let him, if it would help him stop crying—she’s crying too, she realizes, silently dampening his shirt.

They sit there for a long time, mother and son, until she looks at her boy and sees his red eyes, the lines around his eyes and in his forehead that didn’t seem so prominent just a few weeks ago. She takes his hand in hers—no wedding ring, because there’s no way back—and holds it tight in her own.

For a moment, she hates that damn Steven Gerrard. Jamie hadn’t said anything, he’d been careful not to lay blame, but she’s not stupid. She knows her son’s still in love with his husband. He must have called it off, and she curses his stupid face, the stupid beard he’d grown while in LA and the stupid coif to his hair.

“Fuck him,” she mutters.

“Can’t anymore,” Jamie responds, laughing wetly.

“Well, he’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what you have to offer, and I never thought he was all that bright to begin with, honestly, you can do so much better, love—“

“Don’t, Mum. Please, don’t,” Jamie says, voice so small that it just breaks her heart even more.

\---

They’ve agreed to keep it quiet for now, and so Stevie stays at their house, and Jamie does too. Two men living their lives in parallel, their paths hardly ever crossing. When they do see each other, in the kitchen or in the living room, they avoid eye contact.

Jamie can’t stop thinking about it, how their lives are so completely messed up right now and out of the whole world, only Gary Neville and his mother know about it. He figures maybe Stevie’s told someone—maybe he told his mum when he tossed Jamie’s gift into the trash, or maybe he told his brother over drinks. But they haven’t discussed it.

There’s a lot they haven’t discussed.

Jamie’s phoned a lawyer. He’s not particularly interested in fighting over assets, he just wants the whole thing to be done properly and the documents made official.

\---

“How d’you do it?” Jamie asks him one night. He’s on the sofa, coffee table littered with beer bottles. He looks up at Stevie, eyes red and glassy and hopeless.

“How do you do what?” Stevie asks him softly, helping him to his feet. Jamie’s heavy against him, that familiar warm weight against his side. He doesn’t normally drink this much, but then again, nothing about this time in their lives is normal, is it? He starts to guide Jamie, helping him up the stairs.

“How d’you give up on someone? It was so easy for you,” Jamie says softly, and Stevie can feel the weight of his eyes on him, the way he’s always been able to feel the weight of those eyes on his body, “But I still can’t figure it out. How do I give up on ya? I jus’ can’t. I try, love, I try so fuckin’ hard, but you’re my Stevie and I can’t do it.”

“Oh, Jaybird. I didn’t give up on you,” Stevie confesses, helping his husband—still his husband, even now, up into the bed and wiping off his cheeks.

“I never gave up on you, love. I gave up on _me_,” he whispers. He kisses Jamie’s forehead, adjusts the covers around him, and then he leaves.

\---

“Is there someone else?” he asks Stevie quietly one night, tired and hurting and wishing he was drunker than he is at the moment. “Do you want someone else?”

“Not like—I’m not in love with anyone else, if that’s what you’re asking,” Stevie stammers.

“It’s not,” Jamie says, digging the knife into his own chest, pushing deeper, bleeding his whole soul onto the rug in the living room. “Do you want someone else?”

“I did, yeah,” Stevie admits, not meeting his eyes, “there were times when I would see someone, and I would—I’d be attracted to them. I’d want them.”

“Did you fuck someone else?” The lifeblood of his marriage is thick in the air around him, making it hard to breathe.

“No,” Stevie promises, “no, I never—I’d never cheat on you, Jaybird. I _didn’t_ cheat on you.”

Jamie wants desperately to believe it, to believe _him_. But it’s so hard.

A few beers later, it feels a little bit easier, to sit on the sofa and feel himself bleed.

\---

  
It happens a lot, one of them getting completely drunk in the privacy of their own house. Jamie doesn’t think he’s quite a full-fledged alcoholic yet, but this probably isn’t very healthy.

Stevie helps him up to bed more than a few times, and when Jamie’s drunk, he still slips, he still calls him love and Stevie still calls him Jaybird and somehow it doesn’t rip Jamie up inside to hear it. He’d always loved that nickname, until recently.

One night, Stevie’s helping him into bed, getting him under the covers and going to leave, but Jamie grasps his wrist, lightly so he can pull away—because he always pulls away.

“Stay,” he whispers, “just—I know you don’t love me anymore, but stay. I just—I need someone to hold me, _please_—“

Stevie’s heart cracks open in yet another place—he’d thought he’d run out of unbroken places by now, and he shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers, because the thought of wrapping his arms around Jamie and holding him together when he’s the one who tore him apart is just too much to bear. “I’m sorry, Jaybird, I just—I just can’t.”

He takes a step back and his hand slips easily out of Jamie’s loose grip. But those eyes are still on him, wide and wet and hurting, and Stevie flees.

He does his drinking later, after Jamie’s in bed, and he does it in the spare room that’s his for a few more days.

Jamie only asks him to stay when he’s drunk, when his pride—whatever scraps he has left—flies out the window and all he can see is the face of his childhood sweetheart, the grown man who’s so much a part of him that losing him is like losing one of his own limbs—

That’s when he lets himself go, because deep down, he knows that Stevie will still take care of him, and if all he can get is the warmth pressed against his side as they stagger up the stairs together, then he’ll take it.

Beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s leaving soon anyway.

\---

It’s New Year’s Eve. Stevie’s leaving in the morning, and for the first time, the New Year feels more like an ending than a beginning, more like a funeral than a birth.

They both sit on the sofa, Stevie sober because he’s about to travel. Jamie’s not sober, because he doesn’t think he can handle this sober. He can’t handle the fact that this is the last night Stevie will sleep in this house—in their house—sober. The fact that he doesn’t want to is a separate point entirely.

They sit on the sofa and watch television, and when the clock strikes twelve, Jamie looks across at his husband and kisses him. It’s a chaste thing, and while Jamie mumbles a quiet wish for a happy new year, it’s a thin excuse for a kiss goodbye. It’s been a long time since the last time they’ve kissed, he thinks, feeling the stubble on Stevie’s cheek so vividly against his skin that it almost feels like the first time.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” he murmurs, looking at Stevie. “Come with me.”

“Jaybird—that’s not a good idea.”

“It’s just a few hours,” Jamie says quietly, “and then you’re gonna go. Am I that awful, you can’t lay down with me for a few hours? Just stay until I fall asleep, Steve, and then you can go. I’m not—I’m not stupid. I know you’re gonna leave me. I _know_ that.”

“You’re not awful.” Stevie can’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re not awful, J. It’s not that, I just—I want to be as fair to you as I can, and this doesn’t feel right.”

“But it’s what I want. Can’t you give me what I need, one last time? Please, love.” Jamie’s begging now, whispering pleas and pet names and endearments that he’s no longer entitled to. Somewhere in the back of his head, he feels ashamed of himself, but at the same time, he doesn’t care. Not at all.

Stevie stands up and follows him up the stairs.

They lie in bed together, and it’s so perfect it almost brings tears to Jamie’s eyes, just the feeling of being held again by the man he loves.

Stevie wraps an arm around him and Jamie finds his hand and intertwines their fingers, glad that he gets to have this one more time.

It’s almost awful, how easy it is to be like this, how easily sleep comes to him this time.

Consciousness comes slowly, when Stevie’s alarm goes off and he slips out of their bed. There’s a rush of cold air against Jamie’s skin replacing the warmth of his husband, and he shivers a little bit. Stevie sees it and tucks the covers down around him, and just that one small act makes Jamie’s heart swell in his chest.

“Take care, love,” Jamie murmurs to him, bleary-eyed and still half-asleep. “Do you want me to drive you?”

“No, I booked a cab to take me,” Stevie says quietly, “bye, Carra.”

“Bye, Steve.” Jamie watches his ex-husband go into their bathroom one last time, checking in the closet to see if he’s left anything. He must not find anything worth taking, so he ducks out of the room without another word. Jamie hears his footsteps on the stairs, getting quieter as he gets further away. He hears the opening and closing of the front door, and the sound of a car driving away.

Jamie just goes back to sleep. Happy New Year indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Work gives him structure. He has to show up, at the very least, clean-shaven, showered, and dressed. He has to get on the train at the right time, and he can’t drink more than a couple of the tiny bottles from the minibar if he wants to be in any state to do his job well.

So it works. He starts working more, letting Sky know he’s got more availability. He throws himself into charity work.

Sometimes, he almost feels normal again. Then a second later, his heart swells and his finger chafes from the absence of his wedding ring, and he starts wondering how Stevie’s doing, whether he’s already moved on and sleeping with someone else, and—

And it’s not a positive train of thought after that.

He still drinks more than he used to, when he was a (happily, he’d thought) married man, but it’s not so much that he’s afraid his family will stage an intervention, so that’s some sort of positive progress, at least.

He’s fine for a whole day, and the next day, he sees Stevie’s cologne in their bathroom and he cries in the shower.

He’s fine one minute, and the next he’s driving past Stevie’s mother’s house, and his hands start to shake.

He’s fine all day, but the coldness of the sheets at night fills him with this deep and hopeless loneliness, so awful and so painful he can’t even cry, can’t find any release for it at all. He just has to lay there and imagine the comfort of warm arms around him, just so he can breathe again. But imagining his Stevie holding him is usually enough to make it into a more familiar pain, one that makes his eyes water.

\---

He’s doing Soccer Saturday, some two weeks after Stevie had flown back to LA, after Jamie had hidden away the bottle of cologne that made him burst into tears in the spare bathroom, trying with his whole entire being not to feel anything.

Redders looks at him strangely—he’s always familiar, always their Redders, who had taken care of them both, who had known they were in love back before even they really knew it. But today, he looks at Jamie with a little more scrutiny, a little more sympathy, with soft eyes.

He knocks on the door to Jamie’s dressing room afterwards, standing in the doorway until Jamie waves him in.

“What’s going on, J? How are you feeling?” he asks, voice so tender that he simply has to know.

“He told you.” It’s not a question, really. Gary and Redders have had a long working relationship, after all, longer than Gary and Jamie’s has been.

Redders nods. “How are you holding up, Carra?”

Jamie can’t meet his eyes, looks up at the ceiling for a moment instead, wondering how on earth his body is still capable of producing tears when he’s cried so many already. “Not good,” he whispers.

Redders nods again, pulling Jamie down onto the sofa and hugging him tight. He doesn’t say anything, just holds him, and Jamie wonders how the hell he knows that this is exactly what he needs, exactly what he’s missed.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” Jamie whispers, glancing down at Redders’ hand. There’s still a tan line from his wedding ring, but it’s not quite as prominent as it was before.

Redders shrugs one shoulder. “There are good moments and bad moments, J. You probably have good moments and bad moments too, huh?”

Jamie nods miserably, unable to express the relief he feels at not having to explain this invisible pain he carries around with him all the time.

“Yeah.” Redders sighs. “There are a lot of bad moments at first. I used to not want to want up, not want to get out of bed. And I don’t honestly know how I made it, Carra. I have no fuckin’ idea how I survived. But the sun just kept coming up and going down and the days would pass and then it was months, and some days I had more good moments than bad, and some days there were still some bad moments, but they were different.

“It’s not like this, not like it is when it’s fresh, when you’re just so angry—at her, at yourself, at the whole fucking world. It’s just sadness, after a while. You start to see the things you could have done differently, the times you should’ve fought and the times you should’ve let it go. You’re sorry that you hurt someone you loved, but it doesn’t take up your whole body, your whole soul like it does right now.”

“I hate him.”

“I know you do,” Redders murmurs, and now he’s stroking Jamie’s hair, “I know you do, lad.”

“Is that bad, that I hate him?”

“I hated her too,” Redders admits to him quietly, “at first, I hated her, and I hated me. It’s not great, but it’s normal, little J. It’s just human.”

It’s been a long time since he’s been called little J—not since he was just starting out and entering the dressing room, just to differentiate him from Redders. There’s something comforting about it, about turning to someone who’s always taken care of him and knowing he still will, even now that Jamie’s old and damaged.

They stay there for a long time, just the two of them. The silence between them is comfortable, and now and again, they break it, talk quietly and carefully about pain they’ve both experienced. Finally, Redders murmurs that they’ve been gone too long and they need to pack up and head out of the office, and Jamie sighs, not quite ready for a long train ride back to Liverpool.

“Come over for dinner,” Redders says softly, “you can catch the next train if you want, or stay the night on my sofa and I’ll drop you off tomorrow.”

Jamie thinks about it for a moment, but there’s nobody waiting for him at home anyway. “Okay.”

Dinner with Redders is comfortable. They order in Italian and eat it out of the containers, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with an open bottle of wine they just pass back and forth when they want it.

After dinner, Jamie’s full and sleepy and Redders doesn’t even ask if he wants to try to catch a late train back to Liverpool tonight.

“Stay the night,” he says instead, with the gentle authority he’d always had as captain, “I’ll take you to the station in the morning, okay? Stay here, try not to fall asleep, I’ll go make up the spare room.”

Jamie smiles at him, absently noticing the wine-red of his lips and the flush of his cheeks, and nods. He watches television and dozes for a few minutes before Redders comes back.

“Come on, then, little J, no sleeping on the sofa, you may be younger than me, but you’re not a teenager anymore and your body won’t be happy in the morning.”

They go upstairs and Jamie throws himself down on the bed, unbuttoning his jeans and putting them on the other side, along with his button-down shirt. Redders laughs slightly, watching him wriggle around until he’s settled under the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed.

“I’m just down the hall, J. Come find me if you need something, yeah? Your bathroom’s just here, you’ve got your things, and I’ll bring you some water for the morning.”

Jamie just smiles at him.

He remembers Redders’ voice, the bad moments and the good moments. This is a good moment, he thinks sleepily, one good moment of many in a night full of good food and good company.

There’s no alarm on his phone, and he wakes up when his body decides to wake up, no earlier. He stretches out his legs and arms and lets out a little huff, surprised at his own contentment.

It doesn’t really last—not when he checks his phone and still feels an instinctive stab of disappointment that Stevie hasn’t called, not when he looks at his left hand and sees the pale, bare skin.

But now, he’s able to remember that contentment, that brief moment of joy, and the moments of joy from the night before, and how warm he had been when Redders had held him. He remembers how much it had hurt, how that moment hadn’t been joyful at all, but there had been something deeper, some bone-deep urge to be understood that had been satisfied for that brief, brief time, and that’s—it’s not joy, but it’s something, at least.

“You could come stay with me sometimes when you come up instead of being in that hotel every week.”

Jamie promises that he’ll consider it, but he already knows that the answer is yes.

\---

They fall into a little bit of a routine. Jamie comes and stays so often that eventually Redders just gives him a key, in case he’s out of the house when Jamie arrives, hanging out with friends or going shopping.

\---  
  


They drink, sometimes, he and Redders. Redders makes sure it’s not so much that he’ll dig himself an early grave, and he’s pretty sure it doesn’t count as depressed alcoholism if there’s somebody else there with you.

So they drink, and talk, and watch telly, and eat dinner and breakfast, and work together, and yet Jamie never gets tired of him, never wants to be on his own for ten minutes.

It’s one of those nights, and Jamie’s still trying to work out how to be a person without being a husband. It’s so hard to suddenly not be a husband anymore, when he’s been one for so long. It makes him morbid, wondering about the other roles he plays for people—brother, son, friend, and what will happen when those roles cease to fit, when one of them moves on or passes away, or—

Morbid. And introspective. He muses on what it feels like.

“You know what the problem is with getting divorced?” Jamie says to him, very quietly, “the problem is that all you want out of this world is for someone to hold you, and the problem is he doesn’t want to hold you anymore. He just—he doesn’t want to hold me anymore.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” he continues, “I didn’t see him for six months before, he wasn’t exactly in my bed every night, y’know? So it should be the same—I was alone before and I’m alone now. But this—fuck, Redders—this just feels so much worse. Why is this so much worse?” He can hear the anguish in his own voice, the misery of it. He sounds pathetic to his own ears.

“I think it’s because at least I used to know he loved me,” he says, and he hadn’t quite planned to say it, was just thinking out loud, but as soon as the words are in the air, he knows they’re true. “And now I know he doesn’t.”

Redders purses his lips, looking pained. “Let’s get you up to bed, little J,” he says tenderly, because there’s nothing else to be said—nothing that can make a difference.

Jamie lets him, feels the press of his warmth against his side as they go up the stairs and thinks about Stevie in their house, taking him upstairs even after they’d agreed to split up.

“He used to love me,” Jamie whispers.

Redders tucks him into bed, and this is probably too much for him. Tomorrow morning he’ll wait for Jamie to wake up and tell him he’s too much of a burden, that he’s too depressing to be around, and that he can’t stay here anymore. He’ll find some kind way to say it, because Redders is always, always kind, but Jamie knows it’s coming.

“I used to be loved,” he whispers, to himself this time, trying to remember what that had been like, the way he’d just been so at peace when he was with Stevie. It hadn’t all been overwhelming joy at every minute of the day. But there had been so much peace, so much quiet contentment, knowing that he had the best life. And there had been the little sparks of joy, like when the light had caught Stevie’s eyes just the right way, and Jamie had wondered how on earth he’d gotten lucky enough to have someone so beautiful.

“I used to be loved,” he whispers, and this time, he can hear the cracks in his voice, can feel the tears welling up in his eyes before they fall.

“You are still loved,” Redders says firmly, wiping his cheeks, “I promise you, Carra, you are _still_ fucking loved.”

Jamie looks at him, just for a moment, because he can’t quite stand the sympathy.

“Not by him.” He turns onto his side, so Redders can’t see. His old captain takes the hint and squeezes his shoulder, just for a moment, before he gets up and leaves Jamie in the room alone.

He takes out his phone and types, half blinded by the light and the tears and the drink. He falls asleep with the damn thing still in his hands.   
  


In the morning, he will think back on this conversation and realize that it’s another of the bad moments Redders had talked about. Only that reminds him that the bad moments might never go away, and that makes him even more depressed.

In the morning, he will also realize that he’d sent a pathetic text message to his ex-husband while drunk and mopey, and he’ll send an apology. But then, he’ll look at the words, at the way he’d been brave when he was drunk, even if he’d been stupid. He’ll think about how he’d been honest, at least, and he’ll write another line.

He’ll get a message back hours later, and he will stare at the little black letters until he can’t see straight, until he sees their afterimage when he blinks.

\---  
  


He’s lying on the sofa watching telly when Redders comes in. Jamie shifts to move his feet, but Redders just picks them up and sits down, Jamie’s feet in his lap. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, and Jamie looks at him for a moment, and doesn’t pull away.

He can feel the weight of Redders’ arm across his ankles. Redders starts rubbing gentle, aimless circles on the inside of his left ankle, and Jamie’s never thought of his ankle as sensitive to anything other than injury, being stepped on by opponents, but this is new. He feels it so deeply, and he wonders if maybe he’s just used to not being touched anymore. Maybe that’s it.

\---

The hardest thing is not the fact that Stevie doesn’t want to hold him. Well, it is, of course. But the _other_ hardest thing is that he doesn’t really even know who the hell he is without Stevie. Being Stevie’s had allowed him to retain some sense of identity after he’d retired, it had kept one thing constant when everything else changed—his diet, his exercise, the people he socialized with, his relationship to football.

But at the end of the day, it had been Stevie who had slept beside him when he was a footballer. It was Stevie who had held him on the night of his last match, after all the celebratory drinking was over, after all their friends and family had gone home, when Jamie had curled into a small ball under the duvet and started sobbing as if someone had died.

It had been Stevie who’d sat next to him as he’d signed the contract with Sky, Stevie who’d texted him good luck five minutes before he went on air the first time. And when he laid in his bed, for the first time as a pundit, not a footballer, it had been Stevie who had held him.

He isn’t a footballer anymore, and he isn’t Stevie’s anymore. So who is he, exactly?

\---  
  


They’re sitting on the sofa and Redders says something almost unbearably sweet, and in a moment of temporary insanity, Jamie leans over and kisses him.

He’s not drunk. That’s the strange thing. _He isn’t drunk_. He’s just tired and alone and Redders is pretty and kind and he’s there and he already knows so much about him—probably more than (_almost_) anybody else.

And Redders—he’s _there_. He’s always, always there, and at this point in his life, that’s all Jamie can ask for, all he wants.

He isn’t drunk, when he leans in and kisses him, brushes his lips lightly against Redders, a kiss and a question all in one.

(He had been drunk, the first time he’d kissed Stevie. There had been many sober ones afterwards, but sometimes Jamie wonders if they’d ever have found each other without the nudge of a little liquid courage.)

Redders kisses him back, hands in Jamie’s hair, caressing the back of his neck and holding him close. Jamie smiles, question answered, and kisses him again, with clear intent. In the back of his mind, he thinks about nineteen-year-old Jamie—he would have _died_ if he’d known that one day, he’d kiss Redders.

He pulls back, feeling his face do something it hasn’t done in years—form a shy, sheepish smile. “So. How was that for you?”

Redders look at him, expression so fond it makes something in Jamie’s chest ache, and he pulls him back in for another kiss.

They sit there, on Redders’ sofa in London, telly on in the background, and they kiss and kiss. Redders is so warm around him, his arms around his back, or settled on his hips or his shoulders, his warm hands moving from one place to another.

“Bed?” Jamie asks, blushing at the sound of his own voice, low and husky.

Redders thinks it over, longer than a three-letter question warrants, really, and Jamie’s veins turn to ice.

“Sorry,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—this was a mistake.”

Redders just reaches out, hands pressed against Jamie’s forearms to keep him from running. “I want to,” he says finally, “I just—don’t know if it’s right, right now. For you or for me.”

Jamie’s blood starts pumping again. His arms are warm where Redders hands are on them, just below the crease of his elbows.

“So what should we do?” he asks eventually.

Redders shifts a little bit closer. “I think we should keep doing what we’ve been doing, and we’ll move on when it’s right.”

Jamie looks at him, utterly helpless to argue, and nods. Sex would have been nice, but even being held, being kissed, the tender casual contact, even that’s more than what he’d expected.

\---  
  


It goes on that way for some time. Jamie stops going home to Liverpool so often, though he still goes to visit his family some days, to do charity work or things for his foundation on other days. But a lot of the time, he stays with Redders. They go out for dinner and lunch, and buy coffee during breaks at the studio. They banter and joke on-screen, and kiss in the dressing room like teenagers sneaking around.

At night, they still watch telly together, but Jamie will lay his head in Redders’ lap and hum as he works his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. Redders puts his feet up on Jamie’s lap sometimes, and Jamie starts digging his thumbs into the muscles, pushing deep into the arches and listening with a smug smile at Redders’ satisfied groan. He goes all the way up his calves before Redders stops him, a little flushed.

But one night, Jamie sits in the middle of the sofa. Redders comes in and sits next to him, turning and throwing his legs over Jamie’s lap. Jamie rests his hands carefully on Redders’ thighs, drawing aimless patterns into the muscle until finally Redders starts to squirm. He grins and keeps going until Redders drags him down so they’re both lying on the sofa, kissing passionately.

“Bed?” It’s the first time Jamie’s asked since the night of their first kiss, and this time, Redders looks at him for a moment, and stands up.

Jamie sighs. Not tonight then.

Redders holds out his hand, waiting. “Your bed or mine?” he asks, the question sounding more tender than it has any right to.

Jamie grins and answers his question, tangling his fingers with Redders’ and following him up the stairs. Redders sits on the bed, close to him, and reaches out to touch his cheek. Jamie closes his eyes at the contact, reveling in it.

“This isn’t going to make it stop hurting, you know,” Redders says, sounding a little tired, as if he knows this from experience, and Jamie wonders who it was. “This isn’t going to make it go away.”

“Not forever,” Jamie agrees, “but maybe for a couple of hours.”

“A couple of _hours_?” Redders says lightly, “you flatter me, Carra.”

Jamie looks at him, head tilted, takes in the sculpt of his muscles and the features of his face. “No,” he decided, “I really don’t think I do.”

He reaches for the buttons of Redders’ shirt.

\---

He wakes in the morning with an arm around him and smiles. He loves waking up with Stevie, he thinks sleepily, turning to look at him.

Slowly, the reality filters in. Redders’ hair is darker than Stevie’s, his skin a little bit tanner, and he doesn’t snore like Stevie does (though Stevie vigorously denies it). Jamie traces his fingers over Redders’ arm where it lays across his belly. He’s happy, waking up with someone, the sun shining through the windows. But he’s still a little bit crushed that it’s not his husband next to him.

On top of all of that is the guilt. He feels a little bit like he’s cheated on his husband, and he feels guilty, irrational as it is, for having betrayed Stevie. He also feels guilty for even thinking about Stevie right now, when Redders is fast asleep next to him. He turns in bed and looks at Redders, at the way his muscles are loose and his face looks young and peaceful. Is he taking advantage of him? Redders knows better than anybody that Jamie’s far from recovered from the divorce. He’s the one who held Jamie when he cried, after all. He’s the one who wanted to go slow, who wanted to wait before they slept together.

Redders opens his eyes slowly. He smiles at Jamie and reaches out to smooth the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Morning,” he says softly, “don’t think so hard, it’s too early, love.”

“I just—I don’t want to take advantage of you,” Jamie admits, “you’re too important for that.”

Redders looks at him, a little more alert. He looks older. His eyes look tired. “I know you’re not over him yet,” he says quietly, “I went into this with my eyes open, love, I promise you. Now come give me a good morning kiss.”

Jamie’s chest aches with this fondness he can’t put into words, and he leans in and presses his lips to Redders, whispering a good morning as he pulls away.

\---

He looks in the mirror and tries the words.

“I love you.”

He watches himself say them, thinks them and watches the shape of his mouth as he forms the sounds.

It’s so far removed from the first time he’d said them to Stevie, the artless way they’d spilled through kiss-swollen lips, not even a thought of keeping them in, because it was true and he deserved to know. Stevie’d flushed beautifully—but then again, he did everything beautifully, then and now—and leaned in close against Jamie’s chest. He’d whispered the words to Jamie’s heart, too shy then to make eye contact. Jamie had tipped his head up, looked him straight in the eyes, and said it back. He’d been so brave back then, he thinks, looking at the wrinkles around his eyes and the lines in his forehead and wondering if the years had made him a coward or if Stevie had just made him brave.

“I love you, Redders,” he tries again.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

In between each repetition, his reflection looks back at him skeptically. He meets his own disbelieving eyes in the mirror and can’t stand the scrutiny, can’t tolerate being seen, not even by his own eyes.

\---  
  


He ponders when to say it. Before sex seems like a bad idea, after sex almost as bad—a man will say just about anything to get laid and post-orgasm endorphins will loosen a man’s tongue like nothing else. He waits, and wonders, and thinks.

It slips from his lips one night, when they’re in bed, too tired from filming and traveling to do more than undress and kiss good night.

“I love you, Redders,” he whispers.

Redders turns, and Jamie takes in how the moonlight reflects off of his skin, making him look a little paler, like an angel instead of a human being.

“You and I both know that’s not really true,” he says quietly, an ache in his voice that he doesn’t bother to hide. “I wish it was, J. I really wish it was. But it’s not, not yet. You still love him.”

“But I don’t want to,” Jamie admits, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes, “I don’t _want_ to love him anymore! How do I stop?”

“Sweetheart, if I knew the answer, I would tell you.” Redders sighs, pulling Jamie into his arms and holding him close until he finally drifts off to sleep.

\---

_He dreams that he’s in bed with Stevie, struggling to leave, but he’s trapped in the bedsheets and Stevie’s arms are warm around him, and he’s doing his best, but he can’t get out—_

_That’s when Redders comes into the room, looking down at Jamie with this pain in his eyes, asking him why he doesn’t love him, why he’s not enough—_

_And Jamie can’t speak—the muscles of his throat are locked, and he can’t even offer up a semblance of an excuse other than a pleading look. _

He wakes in Redders’ bed, Redders’ arm brushing against his, one warm hand laying across his bicep.

\---  
  


The Premier League season ends, and mostly, Jamie’s just glad that he can hide for a little while, safe and relatively happy in Redders’ arms. He’s been pushing the grief away for a long time, trying to just push through to the end of the season. He remembers suddenly the fights he and Stevie had had, when he insisted on pushing his body to the absolute limit, when Stevie had wanted him to be cautious, to take care of himself.

This isn’t so different. Redders is careful when he touches him, but Jamie can see it in him—the silent wish that Jamie would just slow down and let himself _feel_. He does, sometimes, when he covers matches at Anfield, or drives past Huyton, or sees a man with brown hair and Stevie’s shoulders in the street. His mind still draws automatic comparisons between Stevie and Redders, which is completely unfair to Redders, of course. He shuts them down as quickly as he can, but he can’t stop them from happening in the first place. He can’t help it that his finger still feels empty without his ring.

He can’t help it he still dreams of Stevie sometimes. Some of them are drawn from memories, of when they were young and playing together, on the pitch at Anfield or at Istanbul. Some of them are more based on his secret hopes, that one day Stevie will come back, that he’ll fly home one day and find him and kiss him hard and tell him he’s never going to leave again. Sometimes, he even has some of the old dreams—the hopeful ones he used to have before the divorce, where they had a house and a dog and there were children’s voices, giggling as they splashed in the pool, and school recitals and under-8’s football matches, watching a little boy run around with their names on his shirt. In his dreams, their son always scores the winning goal, and he always runs back to them to celebrate, and he and Stevie each lean down to hug him, pressing kisses to his hair or his cheeks or his temples.

From those dreams, Jamie wakes with tears on his cheeks and a damp pillowcase.

\---  
  


“Frankie asked me to go visit him in New York,” Redders says while they’re doing dishes after dinner one night.

“Oh.” Jamie tries not to sound too disappointed. “That’s great, love, really. When do you go?” His tone isn’t much better—he can still hear the way he’s trying his best to be happy for him, but it isn’t working too well.

“Depends… will you come with me?”

“I don’t want to intrude—“ Jamie lies, but he can feel himself smiling.

“Don’t be an idiot. I want you there. I want Frank to meet you.”

“I’ve known Frank my entire adult life,” Jamie says dryly.

“I want him to meet you anyway. As my—“ Redders hesitates, cringing a little as he finishes the sentence, “boyfriend. God, mid-forties is way too old to have a fucking _boyfriend_.”

“Not too old to have a partner, though,” Jamie offers, and Redders grins, pulling him close.

“So it’s done, you’re coming?”

Jamie nods and Redders picks him up and spins him around, suds going flying around the kitchen while Jamie laughs and presses his damp hands to Redders’ shoulders.

“When do we leave?”

\---  
  


Frank has always been perfectly cordial to Jamie, even if he’d been a bit cold back when they’d both been playing for England. But when he sees them at the airport, Redders holding onto Jamie’s hand the way he always does, he opens up in a whole new way.

It’s amazing, really, that Jamie’s never seen this side of Lamps before, the wicked banter coming through as he jokes, Redders throwing one arm around him and the other around Jamie.

It’s actually really fun, hanging out with the two of them. They sip drinks at night—Frank sticks to juice since his season is still going, and during the day, Frank trains while Redders and Jamie see the sights.

They go to the top of the Empire State Building and kiss and take a picture with the whole city in the background. It’s the sort of picture that can never really see the light of day—it won’t be going on instagram, but it’ll always be there, when Jamie opens his photos and scrolls through, a permanent memory of this trip with this man.

Frank invites them to one of his games, and Redders clearly wants to go—he’s giving Jamie the puppy eyes in full force, but he doesn’t push and tells him they can just as easily go to Times Square or go see a show on Broadway.

Then again, what kind of choice is it between a football match and a musical for Jamie Carragher, genuine football fanatic?

“Let’s go, then,” he agrees, “Frankie, get this man a kit, yeah? He needs the whole world to know who he’s rooting for.”

Redders grins and pulls him in for a kiss, quick enough that Frank doesn’t feel awkward. “You’re the best, J. Isn’t he the best, Frankie?!”

“The best,” Frank agrees, rolling his eyes, “you have such good taste in men, Jamie.”

He’s talking to Redders—he doesn’t call him that, of course, because he’s his cousin, but that is who he’s talking to.

\---

They go down to the dressing room—Frank’s five years younger than Redders, and part of him is still that little boy trying to impress his cool older cousin, as much as he tries to hide it. There’s a look of eagerness in his eyes as he shows them around the dressing room. Redders has been in dozens of dressing rooms at least, but he still looks around and compliments it all, and Frank beams at the praise, really proud of his new team.

Jamie almost wonders at it, but then he remembers Stevie, and how he’d always wanted to impress Paulie, no matter what. It had been pretty easy, considering how Paul has never even gotten a whiff of a professional career, but there was still something of the eager little brother in his ex-husband whenever he was around Paul.

He walks along with them, hand in Redders’ as usual, and finally, the boys start filtering in and Frank smiles regretfully, and they take their cue to leave.

They’re in the hallway when they start to see the opposition. Jamie freezes in his tracks as he sees the crest on the tracksuits.

“You didn’t tell me he was playing the Galaxy,” he mutters, hearing the strain in his voice.

“I—I didn’t know,” Redders responds, squeezing his hand a bit tighter, “it’s okay, he’s injured, he won’t have traveled—“

Maybe the universe hates him.

That’s the only thing Jamie can think of to explain this particular sequence of events when Stevie comes around the corner, headphones dangling. He stops when he sees them too, stumbles a little bit over nothing and steps out of the neat single-file line of players, stepping over to them.

Jamie’s chest clenches hard when he realizes he’s still holding Redders’ hand, and he pulls it away quickly, hoping against hope that Stevie hasn’t seen.

“I didn’t know you two were in town,” Stevie says awkwardly.

“Last minute trip,” Redders says, leaning in for a hug.

Stevie holds out his hand first, pushing Redders half a step back to make room for the handshake before a perfunctory back-slap.

“Jaybird,” Stevie says, voice so tender it’s as though nobody else in the whole world exists.

Jamie doesn’t think his heart is beating. On a rational level, he knows it is, because he’s still alive, but his brain is utterly numb. He hasn’t seen Stevie in months—seven months now, it’s been, and he just aches to pull him into his arms.

“Hi, Stevie,” he manages to get out.

Maybe he’s pathetically transparent. Maybe it’s written all over his idiot face. Either way, Stevie looks at him and pulls him in close for a hug.

He’s wearing his cologne, Jamie notices, his thoughts detached from his body, as if his mind is somewhere else, watching this on a monitor. Stevie’s still wearing his same cologne. He takes a deep breath in and wants, suddenly, to cry.

It’s a long embrace, and when Stevie pulls away, Jamie wants to pull him back and push him far away at the same time. He just looks at him instead.

“You look good,” he says finally, “I thought you were injured?”

“Got better. Or close enough,” Stevie says sheepishly, lifting a hand to run through his hair.

Jamie furrows his brow at the glint of metal on his wrist. It couldn’t possibly be…

But the watch face peeks out from under the sleeve of the tracksuit, and Jamie had spent so much time pouring over different makes and models that he’d know this one anywhere.

“You kept it?”

Stevie looks very briefly confused, until he looks down to where Jamie’s staring at his wrist.

“Of course I kept it,” he says, blushing, “it’s from—well, of course I kept it.”

Jamie mulls this over for a second. “I thought you would’ve thrown it away or something.”

Redders places a hand low on his back, reminding them that he’s part of the conversation without saying a single word. It’s a small thing, but Jamie doesn’t flinch away from the familiar gesture, and Stevie’s eyes are locked onto it for a few seconds before he looks back up at Jamie.

“I could never have thrown it away. Never, J.”

Jamie can feel himself flushing. The last of the Galaxy players are headed into the dressing room now, giving them peculiar looks.

“I have to go,” Stevie says reluctantly. “Will I see you after?” Finally, he glances at Redders, as if just remembering that he’s there too. “Both of you,” he amends, “it would be nice to catch up.”

“We have a reservation for dinner with Frank,” Redders says quietly, and there’s a question in his voice.

Jamie wants to protest, but he just nods, glancing at Redders. It’s the sort of thing that they need to talk about in private first before he starts to make any decisions. “We’ll come by after the match, though, see you before we head out,” he says finally.

“You gonna root for me?” Stevie’s voice is playful, but there’s a softness to it, too.

“Well, Redders has to root for Frankie, I think,” Jamie says fondly.

“And you?”

“I’m undecided,” Jamie teases, “but I can be won over if your side plays beautiful football.”

\---  
  


His side do not play beautiful football. At least not compared to a team that contains David Villa and Andrea Pirlo, as well as Lamps. It almost hurts, to see the man he’s spent nearly his whole adult life loving performing so far below his best.

But there’s still passion in the way he moves, still joy in the way he sprints and passes the ball and takes shots from range.

Jamie had made a different choice. He’d chosen not to let people in on his decline, had wanted to go out at a reasonably high level. Stevie just wanted to play fucking football, and honestly, that’s one of the reasons Jamie’s always loved him.

At halftime, he leans in close to Redders.

“Would you be mad if he came to dinner with us?” he asks softly, one hand in Redders’, fingers intertwined.

Redders looks at him for a moment before he says anything. “I wouldn’t be happy,” he says finally, “I cared about him a lot, but I’m a bit biased these days against anyone who’s hurt you. But I think it might make you happy to have him there.”

Jamie tries to shrug that off, but Redders stills him with just a look.

“I’d like it if he were there,” he admits, unable to meet Redders’ eyes.

“Then we’ll invite him. Who knows, maybe he’ll say no.” Redders sounds a bit more chipper at that last thought, the perfect solution to making sure he lets Jamie ask but doesn’t have to deal with Stevie’s presence.

\---  
  


They’re at the restaurant and Stevie’s hair is still damp from the shower. The part that he’s started to coif up over the past few years has droplets of water still hanging at the ends of the strands of hair.

Jamie tries not to stare, and he tries not to want to put his hands into that hair. He tries not to remember putting his hands in that hair before, in hotel rooms, in their home, on private beaches with no cameras and nothing but the ocean and the sun and the sand. He tries not to remember putting his hands in that hair as Stevie had wrapped his lips around him and sucked, until there was nothing else left in the world but this, but them.

He tears his eyes away eventually, only to find them stuck on Stevie’s left hand, on the fading tan line on the ring finger and the shiny watch on his wrist. He imagines taking the watch off, turning it over to see the words he’d had engraved there, in a moment of hopeless sentimentality. But he hadn’t cared if he was being sappy, then. He’d loved him.

The conversation is largely stilted, and Frank looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. He’d shot Redders a ‘_what are you doing?!_’ look while Stevie had been talking to Jamie. Jamie’d seen it out of the corner of his eye and watched as Redders shrugged a little, hands in his pockets and glanced pointedly at him. Frank had glanced between all three of them and sighed, probably knowing he was in for a long evening.

It’s not the norm in football, to eat dinner with someone after you’ve lost a match against them. Frank and Stevie largely avoid each other’s eyes. Redders is on his best behavior, which is sweet of him but not in the least bit believable. He’s too polite, as if he hadn’t seen Stevie crying in the bathroom of a party after seeing Jamie pressed up against the wall, being kissed by a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. It’s as if he hasn’t celebrated goals with Stevie, wrapping their arms around each other like brothers.

Redders is sitting next to him, an arm casually draped across the back of Jamie’s chair, and he feels like the worst person in the whole world.

“I need the restroom,” he mutters, pushing back from his chair and standing up. His back feels cold, all of a sudden, without Redders’ warmth there. “I’ll be right back,” he says, not making eye contact with anyone.

He has to force himself not to run, makes it to the bathroom and hides in a stall, locking it and leaning his head against the door, trying to get a deep breath.

He is the very worst of men, Jamie decides, once his heartbeat evens out and he can feel air coming into his lungs.

The very worst of men.

He leaves the privacy of the stall and walks to the sink. He leans down and splashes cold water on his face. There’s a sick twist of guilt in his stomach, because this whole situation is one he _chose_. He could’ve just had dinner with Redders and Frank, with his partner and his partner’s cousin. Instead, he’d had the brilliant idea of inviting his ex-husband to come along, so they could catch up.

His guts are tied up in painful knots, and he thinks about Redders, about the way he’d just looked so resigned as soon as Jamie had even brought up the idea of inviting Stevie to the dinner. He thinks about the look in his eyes, the caution, the sadness, and hates himself for being the cause of it. He thinks back to their bedroom in London, thinks back to practicing _I love yous_ in the bathroom mirror and yet still failing to deliver one convincingly to a man who deserved so much more than this—

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, droplets of water on his face, clinging to the hairs of his eyebrows and lashes, dripping down his forehead and cheeks.

As he meets his own gaze, he knows that the worst part is that he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret causing Redders all this pain tonight. Somewhere deep inside, he’s just glad to be close to Stevie again. He’s drinking in the sight of him like a fucking cliché, a starving man before a buffet, a man walking through the desert offered a glass of cool water.

A divorced man meeting his ex-husband for the first time since he’d left him in their bed alone.

He wonders if there’s a word he doesn’t know that fits him better.

_Pathetic_ just isn’t strong enough.

He returns to the table. Frank’s gone, probably somewhere quiet phoning every single person he knows, begging for an excuse to leave. Redders and Stevie are sitting in stony silence at the table.

There’s a pit in his stomach, and it’s yet another thing that Jamie’s ruined—Stevie and Redders had always been close, before. Stevie’d adored him since the day he’d met him, and Redders certainly hadn’t done anything to make the younger man love him less. Jamie thinks back to that day, when Stevie had been called up to the international side for the first time, knees knocking against each other in the lobby, so paralyzed with fear that he couldn’t go upstairs to where the team was.

Not until Redders came downstairs and walked with him.

“This is a bit silly,” he says quietly, “we’re all friends. We’re all friends, right Redders?”

Redders glances at him, holding eye contact for a moment before nodding.

“Right Stevie?”

Stevie sits back and shrugs. “Sure. So when did this thing start, then?”

“Dinner?” Jamie asks lightly, looking down at his watch, “about forty minutes ago—speaking of which, where is that waitress, we should have our entrees by now, don’t you think? At least we should figure out how much long—“

“When did you start fucking Redders?” Stevie asks, voice quiet and level.

“Not until after you left me, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jamie says, feeling his own hackles rising, “not until you got out of our bed and flew across the world, Steven.”

“How soon after? A day? A week? A month?” Stevie’s pressing, and Jamie suddenly doesn’t want to tell him anything, because he has no right—

“Not really your business, is it?” Redders intercedes, voice level. Jamie has the unsettling feeling that they’re all playing poker, and that both of these men can read him far too well for him to have any chance at winning.

“My husband is fucking another man and it’s not my business?” Stevie hisses, acutely aware even now that they’re in public. New York is big, and being in America is a buffer from the type of scrutiny they’d get in their own country, but if there’s anywhere they’ll get recognized, it’s New York, with its pretentious hipsters and its immigrants cloistered in their neighborhoods.

“Ex,” Jamie says softly, “ex-husband, Steve.”

Stevie’s mouth snaps shut, jaw clenched.

“You’re the one who wanted it that way,” Jamie continues, and suddenly, he’s just very, very tired. “I didn’t put up a fight, did I? I let you go, even though it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Can’t you just—why do you have to do this to me now?” His composure is long gone, his voice is soft and pained and vulnerable in a way he does not want to be, not right now, not in front of this man.

Stevie blinks, and his eyes almost look wet. But it must be a trick of the light, Jamie reasons. He’s the one who walked away, after all. He didn’t hurt at all, while Jamie drank so much he nearly pickled his liver.

“Are you happy?” Stevie asks finally, voice rough.

“Sometimes,” Jamie says carefully, “I get close to happy, sometimes.”

“You broke his heart,” Redders says, anger finally coming through, “is that what you wanted to know? That you hurt him? You wanted to know that he was upset? Well, you tore his life apart, Stevie.”

Stevie flinches at the words, but Redders isn’t done yet.

“You know what? You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“Redders, please,” The word is quiet, and the fact that Redders understands a paragraph of meaning from the one word is just another sign of how well he knows Jamie now.

“J, he _hurt_ you,” Redders protests, eyes softening as he looks at him. “He deserves to know what he did.”

“He’s hurting too,” Jamie says finally, voice less steady than he’d like it to be, “I don’t need protecting, love. Not from him.”

The endearment slips out, after over an hour of being careful, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stevie flinch.

“Somebody should, though,” Redders insists, “somebody _should_ look after you sometimes.”

Jamie considers a response, but it’s the sort of conversation that’s best held in private.  
  
They sit in silence for a minute or two, Jamie trying to figure out how to get the conversation started.  
  
“We were all friends, once,” he says softly, “can we just go back to that?”  
  
“_Can_ we?” Stevie asks, voice brittle, “we were married for _eight years_, J. How can I go back to just being your _friend_? God, this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come—you shouldn’t have invited me, J.”  
  
He... has a point. Jamie chews on his lower lip while he thinks about it.  
“Just for tonight. That’s not asking too much,” he says finally. “I know we have history, and I’m not asking you to forget everything from when we were together, but... you two don’t have to be so aggressive towards each other.” He can feel himself blushing. “It makes me feel like a bone two dogs are fighting over.”

Redders is the first to apologize. “You’re right, J. I got too defensive. I’ll back off for the rest of the night.”

Stevie clenches his jaw, swallowing hard before nodding once, not saying a word.

“Do you remember Stevie’s debut?” Jamie asks, figuring memories were the only way to escape the current tension between them, “you used to be so scrawny, Steve, wearing your big, baggy kits!”

Stevie eases up just enough to roll his eyes. “I was _sixteen_,” he protests, “and you’re the one who wore long sleeves for years because you were convinced your arms were skinny!”

“Well, I was _eighteen_,” Jamie rebuts, “hardly in my physical prime!”

“And you scored that goal on your debut, do you remember?” Redders says, looking at Jamie with this softness in his eyes, “I ran over to you, but you already had like three guys on top of you at that point, squeezing the living daylights out of you. I had to make them let go before I could get my hug in!”

Jamie grins. “What can I say? I’m a popular man,” he teases. Redders grins back at him, and lays his arm carefully along the back of Jamie’s chair, fingers dipping down to touch the skin of his shoulder.

“I was in the stands,” Stevie volunteers, and Jamie can feel his eyes on him, the weight of his gaze. “I remember, I watched you score and I wanted so badly to get there, to be on that pitch. I used to think about it every time I got injured, or every time I scored for the U18s, I used to think that that was what I was working for, to get onto that pitch and score goals.”

“And you did.” There’s a note of approval in Jamie’s voice. “You did it, you scored more in your first full season than I did in my entire career!”

The words could have been bitter—he could have been annoyed at himself for not scoring more, but his voice is full of pride, not even a hint of bitterness.

They go on like that for awhile, almost surprised when their food actually shows up. The tension in the air is still there, and it wouldn’t take much for it to come back full force, but Jamie works hard to make sure it doesn’t, tells lots of jokes at Gary’s expense, making Redders and Stevie both laugh.

Jamie and Redders split a dessert, and when Jamie notices that Stevie’s looking at it longingly—probably forbidden the luxury of brownie à la mode on his athlete’s diet—he rolls his eyes and offers him a spoon.

Stevie takes the spoon that’s just been in Jamie’s mouth and looks at it for a moment before he dips it into the ice cream, getting a good chunk of the warm brownie, and lifts it into his mouth.

His eyes close at the flavor, and Jamie remembers seeing that expression hundreds of times over the years—enjoyment of good food, or the sun on his face, or the moment Jamie pressed into him, skin against skin against sheets, making love in their home in between quiet, rushed orgasms in hotels.

Jamie feels himself watching Stevie’s mouth for just a moment too long, the glint of the steel and the brown of chocolate smeared over lips that he’s kissed thousands of times and yet not _enough_—He meets Stevie’s eyes, and he can see that Stevie sees it too. He manages to somehow tear his eyes away from the sight and back to Redders, telling a story about Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman, and he laughs obligingly, feeling himself flush under the weight of Stevie’s gaze.

They sit for awhile longer, lingering until Stevie’s phone buzzes and he looks at it regretfully. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” he says quietly, rising to his feet, “but it was good to see you J… You too, Redders.”

The late inclusion of Redders makes Jamie roll his eyes, but it’s not with the same anger as they’d had before. It’s almost more teasing than anything.

Redders murmurs something about getting back to their own hotel, too, about Frank expecting them for breakfast the next morning.

For the first time, Jamie wonders how Frank had managed to completely just ditch them—whatever excuse he’d fed Redders must have been a good one.

They amble out of the restaurant. Jamie leaves the restaurant first, standing out in the warm air. He realizes after a moment that he’s still alone, and sees Stevie pulling Redders aside for a quick word. His first instinct is to intercede, to stop whatever confrontation he’s afraid will break out. But before he can get back through the revolving door, they finish the conversation, and walk out.

Stevie takes the first cab, and then they take the second. Redders intertwines their fingers in the backseat of the taxi, and Jamie can feel his warmth as they walk side by side through the lobby of the hotel and into the elevator.

“So what was that about?” Jamie asks him, and he can feel the weight of food in his stomach, making his eyes heavy, and he lays his head on Redders’ shoulder in the cab.

“What was what about?”

“That conversation you two had before you came out of the restaurant. What was that about?”

“Take a guess,” Redders says, laughing a little. “It was about you, J.”

\---

In bed, Redders wraps an arm around him, nearly ready to drift off, when Jamie speaks.

“I’m not a child, you know,” he says quietly.

“I… know that? Redders sounds more confused than anything else.

“So you don’t need to protect me. I’m not a child that you need to take care of,” Jamie elaborates.

Redders props himself up on his elbow, looking down at him. “I know you’re not a kid anymore. You’re not that little boy who cleaned my boots, or wore long sleeves because you were insecure about your arms. You’re a grown man.”

“I am.” He feels stupid repeating himself like this, but it feels important.

“That’s not why I stood up for you,” Redders explains, the hand that’s not supporting his head coming up to press against Jamie’s cheek, tilting it towards him. “I did it because I care about you. I l—I like you. Very much. And you could’ve been fifty years old, and if someone had hurt you, I’d be upset with them. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

Jamie takes a moment to imagine it, to imagine dinner with Redders and his ex-wife—and suddenly cringes at the fact that he made Redders suffer through that. He’s surprised that he does feel a rush of protectiveness for Redders, the same way he’d felt earlier, when Redders and Stevie had been going off on each other. Then again, he’d always protected Stevie, but he’d assumed it was just because he was younger, not because he loved him…

“Oh,” he says sheepishly, and the whole thing was about him proving he’s not a kid anymore, but he hasn’t felt so like a foolish teenager in at least a decade.

“Oh.” Redders agrees, leaning down to kiss him. “Can we sleep now? That pasta just about knocked me out.”

Jamie smiles at that, leaning into his warmth and closing his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Stevie gets off the plane to Los Angeles tired and more worn out than when he’d left.

He thought he’d feel better—lighter without the deadweight of his wedding ring. He doesn’t. He gets out of the plane and instinctively wants to text Jamie to let him know he made it okay, that he’s landed. But he pushes the instinct back, taking a deep breath and collecting his luggage.

He pulls out his phone in the taxi and types and deletes half a dozen times before finally settling for the next best thing and putting his phone back into his pocket. The cab driver makes small talk and smiles politely when Stevie answers, clearly struggling with his accent. That’s one thing about home—at least there people understood what you were saying. He pulls his phone out again, unable to resist, and types out a message.

_Look after him. Please. He needs someone. _

He presses send.

It makes things just the slightest bit easier, knowing that someone’s going to check in on Jamie, make sure he’s okay, make sure he’s taking care of himself. It’s not enough to assuage the guilt—not by a long shot—but it’s something.

Training starts the next day, and it takes some time, but eventually, Stevie notices that some of his teammates look at him a little differently. Some of them look at him with sympathy in their eyes, recognizing the absence of a wedding ring as a difficult experience. Some of them, those who had shot him subtle glances of appreciation in the past, look at him now more shamelessly, letting their eyes linger, letting their expressions tinge with hunger. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s not _unpleasant_, being looked at.

He looks back surreptitiously, in quick, secret glances, feeling guilt roil up in his gut. It’s been such a long time since he’s looked at anyone other than Jamie like this. Deep down, part of him still feels like he’s not allowed to.

\---

Robbie Keane phones him more. They go play golf together, dancing around the topic. He’d always gravitated towards the Irishman in the dressing room and during training, having known him from before. He was one of the few people who’d understood him right from the get go, Scouse accent and all. They were a similar age, too, and it was easy to grow that teammate bond into something resembling friendship.

Stevie had been more of a homebody before—now Robbie asked him to come over more, to go out for coffee or lunch, to go golfing. Stevie might almost have been flattered if it wasn’t for the keen look in Keano’s face, as if he was constantly looking for the cracks in Stevie, waiting for him to break.

“I’m sorry about the divorce,” he says finally, one day, quiet and awkward, but genuine, “I’m sorry he left you.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry Jamie left you,” he says again, almost painfully earnest.

Stevie shakes his head, confused. “No—I left him.”

“You don’t have to protect him,” Keano says gently.

Stevie only shakes his head harder. “I left him,” he says again, more forcefully. “Why did you think he left me?”

“Because you’ve been acting all depressed,” Keano says frankly, a little of the sympathy melting away. “I thought you missed him.”

“I do. I did. It’s complicated. I broke it off at Christmas.”

Keano lets out a low whistle, but refrains from commenting on exactly how much of a heartless bastard Stevie is. Stevie doesn’t need to hear it, though, it’s written all over his face.

“Now why the fuck would you go and do something like that?” he asks quietly.

Stevie shrugs helplessly, because he thought he’d had an answer to this question, once, but he’s not sure anymore. None of his reasons feel substantial enough to justify the fact that his phone doesn’t ring anymore, that he doesn’t get texts from Jamie asking how his day had gone.

He must look sufficiently pathetic, because Keano backs off and pulls Stevie into a hug.

Stevie melts into the warmth and closes his eyes against tears that have no real reason for being here, because this was his own choice—he _chose_ this, and he has no right to be hurt over it now.

\---

A month later, one of his teammates is looking at him with desire in his eyes, and they’re talking—flirting, really. Marcus looks him up and down, once and then once more, and Stevie makes a snap decision.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” he asks.

Marcus agrees, smirking just slightly, as if he’s won something.

Stevie lets him in and almost immediately finds himself pinned against the door, a hard thigh in between his legs.

“Wanted you for so long,” Marcus murmurs, “so gorgeous—always wanted—“

Stevie arches into the touch—it’s the first time he’s been kissed by someone other than Jamie in over a decade, and it’s new, but mostly it’s just strange. Marcus doesn’t know how he likes to be kissed, he fumbles along his skin, doesn’t quite know where to kiss to steal Stevie’s breath away.

He’s so young, Marcus—four years younger than Stevie, six younger than Jamie, and he’s so eager, this man barely in his thirties, holding him so tight Stevie’s half-afraid they won’t make it all the way to bed.

They do, in the end, and Stevie wants to move slow, like he used to, like it’s something to be savored, but Marcus wants it hard and he wants it fast and he wants it _right the hell now_. So Stevie fucks him through the mattress, pounds into him and listens to him scream his name—_Stevie, Stevie, Stevie—_

There are none of the endearments that Jamie used to use so freely in bed, no _loves_, no _babes_, none of it.

Once they’re done, they relax for a moment, and then they go again.

After two rounds, Stevie’s exhausted, sore in muscles he hasn’t used in longer than he wants to admit—and that’s saying something, considering his profession.

“Are you hungry? Should we order something?” he asks Marcus, smiling at him.

Marcus agrees easily enough, and they order the healthiest thing that will deliver to the house.

They eat out of the carryout containers while sitting in bed. They eat and lounge around for a little while, and then they go for round three, and after that Stevie knows he’s pretty much done for the night.

Marcus stays and they fall asleep.

Stevie wakes up first. Marcus is on the other side of the bed, somehow not touching him, even though he is sprawled out comfortably.

He gets up and heads into the shower, trying to think through the last night, trying to figure out what the hell he’s just done and why he feels a little bit sick to his stomach.

He wraps a towel around his hips and hopes that Marcus isn’t awake yet—for some reason, he doesn’t really want him to see him naked. It feels like too much, even though they see each other like this every day in training. It’s just… different.

He opens the door, and of course, Marcus is up. Even worse, he’s got the nightstand drawer open.

He curses. “You caught me,” he says lightly, “I was snooping. Sorry. I was curious.”

“About?” Stevie asks, a slight edge in his voice.

“You. Just in general, I guess.”

“And? What did you find?”

“You have good taste. This watch is beautiful. You should wear it more.”

He lifts up the box, and Stevie suddenly wants to rip it out of his hands, wants to throw up, wants to keep him from touching it. Marcus can’t see the engraving of course, it’s on the back of the watch, but still—it makes him sick.

“Put that back,” he says, voice harsher than it should be. He knows it’s too harsh, but he can’t quite help it, “Put. It. Back. _Now_.”

Marcus puts his hands up in surrender and then sets the box back into the drawer. “Sorry—I didn’t know.”

Stevie wants to tell him that it’s fine, but instead, he thinks about how much Jamie must have thought about that present, thinks about the note that’s tucked into the bottom of the box. He thinks about Jamie’s face, on the day of their wedding, and then again on the day that he’d told him he was leaving, and he doesn’t want this stranger anywhere near what he and Jamie had had for such a long time.

Marcus goes home right away, skipping breakfast to go home and freshen up. Stevie’s glad he’s gone—he can finally breathe again. He takes out the watch and stares at it for a little while, putting it on his wrist for a few minutes and admiring its weight, the way the glass and metal catch the light, the comfort of the soft leather strap, because Jamie had known he didn’t want anything too flashy to actually use—

He looks at it, and then he takes it off, cleans it carefully, and puts it back into its box, and the box back into its drawer.

He doesn’t sleep with Marcus again. It was fun, he tells him, but he generally doesn’t mess around with teammates. It’s a paper-thin lie, and he’s got the tan line on his ring finger to prove it, but he doesn’t really care about justifying himself.

\---

Robbie Rogers is a friend. He hadn’t known him before LA, at least nothing beyond what the headlines said—how brave it was for a footballer to come out, even if it was in America. People outside of football didn’t know how common it was, how it was an open secret in some locker rooms. The way it had been in Liverpool, where Jamie and Stevie had kept their hands to themselves (mostly), but carpooled every morning and looked at each other as if they couldn’t quite believe their luck.

But he and Robbie had hit it off almost immediately. It wasn’t romantic—probably because when they’d met, he’d had Jamie, and now they knew each other too well. But they were friends, eating meals together, sharing rooms on away trips and sitting next to each other on the long plane rides from state to state to play football for a couple of hours before sitting on the plane again to go back to LA.

Robbie studies him, much the same way Keano had. He looks at him closely after the break, glances at his bare ring finger, but doesn’t say anything until Keano’s already gotten the full story. Robbie invites Stevie out for coffee one day after training and as they sit in the coffee shop in comfortable silence.

Robbie breaks the silence, leaning forward, earnest and young. “Talk to me,” he says softly.

Stevie looks him in the eyes—if he was just five years younger and not fresh off a divorce, then maybe…

“I left my husband on Christmas,” he says. He finds he likes to portray himself as the bad guy. He wants the scorn, wants to see the recoil on the faces of people who’d once thought him a good man, a kind man.

Let them see who he is now. The sort of man who leaves his husband on Christmas Eve.

“Fuck,” Robbie curses softly.

“Fuck,” Stevie agrees, “you should’ve seen his face. I have nightmares about it, the way I hurt him, and I always feel like I’m going to throw up in the morning.”

“Tell me everything,” Robbie says, quiet and firm and this is what Stevie needs. Orders, not questions.

He tells him everything.

“So how do you feel?” Robbie says at the end of the story.

Like he hasn’t taken a single breath in the last ten minutes.

“Empty, mostly. Numb.”

\---

Robbie takes him to a gay bar. It’s a good idea, really, a way to try to see if maybe he’s ready for something new. There’s a tall man sitting near them—tall, dark, and handsome, exactly Robbie’s type, and he smiles and asks him to dance. Robbie looks at Stevie, then, before he answers, expression guilty.

“Go on, lad, have fun. And you, treat him right, yeah?” Tall, dark, and handsome nods, taking Robbie’s hand and leading him to the dance floor. Stevie orders a soda and stirs his straw in it idly, watching the ice cubes move in the dark liquid and waiting for someone to catch his eye. He expects to come out with a hookup, a one-night stand, but instead, a guy walks up to him and asks if he can take him out to dinner.

Stevie looks at him, sure that his confusion shows on his face, but agrees. He’s blond, this new man, and tall. His name is Ben, and three dates in, Stevie goes back to his house and sleeps with him. They start dating, and Stevie takes long, deep breaths, and tries not to think he’s too old to introduce himself to someone new, to teach this man everything he needs to know about how Stevie likes to be held at night, how he likes things in bed, how he likes his eggs.

Ben is sweet, and he does try. But he makes Stevie’s tea black, without any milk or sugar, and if Stevie had wanted hot bitter water, he’d drink his own piss, thanks very much. Ben watches him add sugar and milk, and eventually, he catches on. But it takes longer for him to realize that Stevie hates omelets but loves scrambled eggs, that Stevie doesn’t really do shower sex, that Stevie isn’t the best at answering texts, that sometimes he just goes to his own house and enjoys the uneasy peace that comes with loneliness.

He thinks about Jamie often, wondering what he’d think of Ben. He can imagine him laughing at how carefully Ben does his hair in the morning, how he slips on skin-tight jeans just to go to the store. He can imagine Jamie talking to Rob, telling him exactly where he’s going wrong. It’s not good to compare, and he knows that, but after a dozen years with the same man, he doesn’t really know how not to.

When he’s at his own home—which Ben has visited but never stayed the night in—he watches Sky Sports sometimes. He watches Gary Neville and Thierry Henry and Jamie Redknapp and his Jamie—_not his, not his, and he’s the one who wanted it that way_—talking about football.

There’s a new softness in the way that Gary treats Jamie now, a sort of deference to his knowledge and expertise, whereas before he might have argued a bit more. They still argue, of course. That’s the sort of friends they are, after all. But Gary lets things go, smiles more. Some vicious part of Stevie wonders whether he’s fucking his husband. The reasonable part of him decides that he really doesn’t have the right to care who Jamie sleeps with, but that part is small and easily overruled.

Redders is gentle with him too. They do an interview together, a more casual interview with Jamie slouched on a couch while Redders sits next to him. They sit close together, and they’re always looking at each other, always smiling and laughing and joking, and something in Stevie’s heart settles, to see Jamie smile. It’s a beautiful sight, even if the makeup can’t quite cover up the dark circles under his eyes every time. But something in his gut roils, and he thinks about their youth, when he and Jamie had whispered to each other under the covers of hotel beds. He thinks about both of them admitting they had a crush on Redders, both laughing at their own adolescent stupidity under cover of darkness.

Redders reaches out and touches Jamie’s shoulder, and Jamie leans into the touch as they laugh at some joke or memory, and suddenly Stevie can’t quite see what he’d ever seen in his old captain.

One day, when Stevie’s done with training, he checks his phone, and finds a text message from his ex-husband.

_Imiss yoo_

He’s drunk. Jamie’s drunk and alone somewhere in London or Liverpool, and Stevie’s heart squeezes, praying that he’s alright, that someone will take care of him. But at the same time, he hopes that nobody takes care of him _too_ well—it’s petty and horrible, but he doesn’t want to be replaced quite yet.

He stares at the message on and off all day, typing and deleting a dozen responses before he goes to bed, having not responded at all. He wants to, dearly, but it’s not fair, responding when Jamie’s drunk and vulnerable.

He wakes up to two more text messages.

_Fuck, I’m sorry. _

_I meant it, but I’m still sorry. I know I shouldn’t._

He traces the words, relishing the way he can hear them in Jamie’s voice. He types a response and sends it before he can hesitate.

_I miss you too. _

He breaks up with Ben in June.

He longs to skip past the beginning stages of relationships. He doesn’t want to spend time talking about how many siblings his dates have, or where they all live, or what they do. He doesn’t want to spend his time trying to remember their friends’ names. He doesn’t want to go out with strangers and watch them all drink and have fun while he remains professionally restricted to water.

Most of the time, he’s just tired of it all. He’s been away from home for so long now, and he’s more than ready to go back.

\---

Their next match is in New York. Stevie has mixed feelings about it, since he’s just gotten the all-clear to train again and he’s probably going to be sitting on the bench all night, thinking about how he’d do things differently than his teammates, how he’d make better passes, smarter runs, if he’d had the legs he’d had ten years ago.

It’s a bit of a shock to realize that he’s getting a little tired of football. At least this type of football, with long travels and hardly any minutes and injuries every couple of months, his hamstrings starting to give out on him more and more.

He wants to go home. He thinks about it every night, as he goes to sleep alone in the bed sheets Jamie had picked out. He thinks about it as he drinks his coffee in the morning and inadvertently flashes back to their house, the first morning after, when Jamie had begged him to stay, when he had drank cold, bitter coffee, with a hint of salt from where Jamie had cried into it.

He packs his things and shows up a few minutes early to the training ground, where they’ll take a bus, so they can go to the airport, where they will wait in line to go through security and smile for a handful of fans before settling on a commercial airplane that will carry them across the whole wide expanse of the United States and back three hours into the past when they land in New York.

That’s another thing he doesn’t like. The time zones really fuck him up. Going down to Texas is one thing—just an hour or two, but New England? DC? New York? A six hour journey with a three hour time difference feels like a lot to travel for just a couple of days. His body doesn’t adjust as well as it used to, when he just stole one of Jamie’s sleeping pills if they were traveling to Australia or China or the States for a preseason tour.

The flight is largely uneventful. He sleeps through most of it, but wakes, somehow more exhausted than before with a stiff neck. He turns his neck the other way and pulls his head down slowly, to loosen the muscle, and thinks about the dozens of times he must have fallen asleep with his head on Jamie’s shoulder, the thousands of miles they must have covered sitting like that.

He dozes again in the bus to the hotel and crashes after a quick dinner, passing out in the hotel bed and waking to Robbie singing in the shower as he gets ready.

He half-listens to the talk their coach gives them over breakfast, closes his eyes in the bus without actually sleeping, and puts his headphones in as they walk into the ground. For all that America has a reputation of shunning football and favoring any of a dozen other sports instead, the grounds are loud and full of passionate fans, if maybe fewer of them than at home.

He’s walking absent-mindedly down the tunnel, trying to figure out if they’d played here on a preseason tour sometime before, when he sees Redders out of the corner of his eye. He freezes for a moment, and his heart skips a beat when he sees Jamie next to him.

His brain is working overtime, struggling to catch up as he steps out of the line of players briskly walking to the dressing room. How—this doesn’t make any sense—how is Jamie here?

His brain short-circuits even more somehow.

_Why is Jamie holding Redders’ hand?_

Nothing in this world makes sense, as he walks towards them, brain still scrambling desperately to try to remember how to speak, how to act like a normal human.

Jamie yanks his fingers out from in between Redders’, as if he thinks Stevie somehow just won’t notice. As if he’s an idiot or something.

It’s the sort of thing that would irritate him if he could remember how to breathe.

_You’re in America_, he thinks at Jamie, _you’re here. _

_You found me. _

_Please tell me you came all this way to see me. _

“I didn’t know you two were in town,” he says, voice a little breathless, a little shaky.

“Last minute trip,” Redders says, leaning forward for a hug.

Stevie doesn’t want to hug him. He wants to know why in the hell Redders is holding hands with Jamie. But even now, with his brain roughly four steps behind (still), he knows that that’s a bad idea. Instead he extends a hand for Redders to shake, only he’s already leaning in, so it becomes awkward, as his former captain takes a half-step back, almost dancing.

He turns to Jamie—half to escape any potential conversation with Redders, and half because he can’t think about anything else, other than saying—

“Jaybird.” He can hear the tenderness in his own voice, tenderness he no longer has any right to, the nickname he gave up the right to but clings to anyway.

He aches. He aches to hold Jamie, to have Jamie hold him and tell him everything he’s missed in the last seven months of his life. He aches to tell Jamie that he’s not as happy as he thought he would be, that meaningless sex makes him miserable, that his boyfriend for the summer couldn’t make a single decent cup of tea if his life had depended on it. He aches to ask him if anyone’s touched him, if anyone’s shared a bed with him, and were they as good as Stevie was?

Does he _love_ any of them? Does he love _Redders_?

“Hi, Stevie.” So that’s what his name sounds like in that voice, slipping out from between those lips.

Stevie has a million and one questions biting at his lips, and he can’t ask a single one of them, so he steps forward and pulls him into his arms.

Jamie holds him back, and they stay like that, locked in a long embrace. His breathing is shaky, Stevie notices, shallow and fast and Stevie tightens his grip, wanting to hold him until he can relax.

Stevie closes his eyes, letting the world melt away until he hears a quiet little cough from Redders’ general direction. He opens his eyes reluctantly and steps back. Jamie holds onto him for a second—just a second, not letting him get too far—before he lets go, too.

“You look good,” Jamie says, looking him up and down. Stevie can feel himself going a bit flushed, but hopes the hard-won California tan will keep it from showing. “I thought you were injured?”

Was he injured? He can’t quite recall—these past months have been nothing but mild injuries, a week or two out before coming back, and his brain is functioning at about half its normal capacity anyway.

“Got better. Or close enough,” he says eventually. He nearly chokes on the first word and wonders if Jamie notices. He tries to cover up his embarrassment by pulling a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, where the skin is warmer than usual.

Jamie stares at his arm—at his wrist, in particular, and Stevie can’t quite work out why until he sees the flash of metal for himself.

He’s embarrassed, suddenly, even more so than before. It feels presumptuous, to wear the watch Jamie had gotten him when they were still married, the one Stevie’d opened the day after he’d left him, the one he had clutched on the floor of his mother’s bathroom, sobbing. He remembers the two notes, both carefully tucked into the box at home.

He’d started wearing it about a month ago, on days when he was feeling particularly adrift. It stabilized him, reminded him in some way who he was, or who he had been, once.

“You kept it?” There’s a tremble in Jamie’s voice, barely perceptible.

Stevie’s more… confused than anything else. Of course he kept it. What did he think, that he was going to throw it away?

“Of _course_ I kept it,” he says, because he can’t quite think of any other response, “It’s from—“ _you_, he thinks, _it’s from _you_, Jaybird_. “Well, of course I kept it.”

“I thought you would’ve thrown it away or something.”

Now that’s something that requires a response, but Redders places a hand to the small of Jamie’s back, and Jamie doesn’t push him away, and Stevie forgets how to speak for a moment.

“I could never have thrown it away,” Stevie says firmly, hoping his voice conveys how deadly serious he is about this. “Never, J.” He doesn’t know what else to do, how else to prove what he says.

Nearly the whole of his team has gone into the dressing room. Robbie’s waiting outside, looking at him and coughing pointedly.

Stevie doesn’t want to go. He almost can’t stand the idea of leaving Jamie now—who knows if he’ll still be around after, if he’ll even want to see Stevie again if he’s got the choice not to?

“I have to go,” Stevie says slowly, glancing at Robbie reluctantly. “Will I see you after?” The question could be aimed at either of them, but Redders may as well not even exist, except for where he’s _still_ touching Jamie’s back.

_Why are you still touching him?_ he thinks, trying not to glare at the offensive appendage.

“Both of you,” he says finally, fooling exactly nobody. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“We have a reservation for dinner with Frank,” Redders says promptly. Stevie looks at him, silently annoyed. _He’s not a child_, he thinks, _he’s perfectly capable of talking for himself_.

Jamie glances at Redders. Stevie wonders if they can do the wordless communication now, the way that he and Jamie had been able to do. He watches Jamie swallow, watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he nods.

“We’ll come by after the match, though, see you before we head out,” he says finally.

_Thatta boy, Jaybird_. “You gonna root for me?” He wants it to be a tease, and it is, but there’s a hint of flirtation there, too, and it’s tenderer than he intended it to be. They’ve always been on the same team. He knows—at least he _hopes_—that Jamie will always root for him.

Jamie smiles at him, a little coy. “Well, Redders has to root for Frankie, I think,” he says playfully.

“And you?” God, there’s so much _hope_ in his voice. He’s giving the whole game away on the first turn. Jamie’s gonna think he’s pathetic. He wouldn’t be wrong.

“I’m undecided,” Jamie teases, “maybe if your side play beautiful football, I can be won over.”

He thinks back, remembers how Jamie had confessed to him once, pressing his swollen lips to sweaty, sticky skin. _I fell in love with you for your football first, _he’d admitted to the skin of Stevie’s back in a rush of warm breath, _I fell in love with the way you hit a pass, the way you struck the ball, the way you slid into a challenge. And then I fell in love with the rest._

It makes his stomach sink, a little bit. Because the LA Galaxy do not play beautiful football, and Steven Gerrard no longer strikes the ball the same way, no longer slides into challenges like he did when he was younger. He can’t hit forty, fifty yard passes as easily, and when he does, his body has to deal with the consequences.

He smiles at Jamie, mumbles some inane reply, and says goodbye, remembering at the last second to look over at Redders, too.

_He’s still touching Jamie’s back. _

\---  
  


He’s still thinking about it when he gets into the dressing room, only to be followed by Robbie, who’s already dressed, over to where he’s got his things to change.

“What the hell was that?” his friend hisses.

“That… was my ex-husband,” Stevie mutters to him, “and our old captain, and I think they’re sleeping together.”

Robbie’s face goes pale in sympathy, and he squeezes Stevie’s shoulder. “You, me, drinks tonight, yeah? You deserve them, after this.”

Stevie smiles weakly. “Might meet them afterwards, for dinner or something. Redders is Lamps’ cousin, so I’m guessing Frank’ll be there. It’s the sort of thing that would drive the English press absolutely bonkers, but—”

“But here, nobody cares,” Robbie finishes, the words familiar from all the times Stevie’s said them before.

“But here, nobody cares,” Stevie confirms quietly. “I’ll let you know what our plans are, if we have any, and then you and I can debrief after. No drinks, just maybe some water or something. Though I could probably down a dozen Carlsbergs at the minute.”

\---  
  
Before, on the plane, Stevie’d just been hoping to get some minutes. Now that he’s seen Jamie, he’s secretly hoping to play the full ninety, though he knows that’s pretty unrealistic for him now, at this stage of his career.

Still, he gets picked to start—possibly because the match was advertised as him and Lamps rekindling their rivalry on the other side of the pond—and he goes from excited to nervous in the blink of an eye. It’s been so long since so much has ridden on a single game of football. He wants so desperately to impress—to show Jamie that he’s still the same man he was when they’d met, all those years ago.

He finds himself frustrated over the course of the first half. He runs as hard as he can, plays as well as he can, but it’s still not enough. He’s glad when the whistle blows, and looks out into the stands, hoping for a glimpse of Jamie, hoping he’s looking back at him.

But he doesn’t see him, and he’s got to get down the tunnel, back to the dressing room, and all he can do is hope that he did okay, even if it wasn’t as good as it could have been, five, ten years ago.

He sits in the dressing room, listening to the team talk with half his brain while the rest of the team nods along seriously. They’re up against pretty steep odds—NYCFC has not only Lamps, but also David Villa and Andrea Pirlo. All three of them might be past their prime, but they’re still excellent footballers, and they can coordinate play like a maestro directing an orchestra.

He sighs, jogging a little as they go back out to shake the soreness out of his legs and keep warm. Fifteen minutes of half time is enough to get him stiff some days, especially when he’s been running as hard as he has been today.

The second half is about as bad as the first, and when the final whistle blows, he’s lost to Frank Lampard, and he almost wants to hide from Jamie and Redders, wants to go somewhere dark and alone and nurse the wounds to his pride.

He spends a few minutes talking to Lamps, though he doesn’t particularly want to, about what it’s like in the US and how much they miss home. Stevie never knew he’d have this, this strange, instinctive kinship for any other English player, teammate and opponent alike.

\---

They lose, of course, and Frank is out in the corridor with Redders and Jamie, chatting away, when Stevie walks over to join them.

“Do you think you could get away from the team for a bit, have dinner with us?” Jamie asks, a strange lilt to his voice, as if he’d practiced the words in the mirror, aiming for the perfect mix of warm and casual, as if Stevie isn’t already intimately familiar with all the ways his voice can sound.

“Yeah, no problem.”

\---  
  


Jamie stares at him over dinner, and he tries not to read too much into it. It must be something, though, right? It must mean something that Jamie is staring at his face as if he was the Mona Lisa, or that he stares at his hair, or at the watch on Stevie’s wrist, or at the tan line on Stevie’s ring finger.

It must mean something.

Frank manages to escape, and Stevie wishes Redders would follow the cue from his younger and more talented cousin and leave him and Jamie alone to catch up properly. He’s clearly uncomfortable, after all, but he’s pushing through it, weathering the storm.

Jamie finally breaks, standing up abruptly and announcing that he needs the restroom, and then it’s just him and Redders.

“I asked you to look after him, not to start fucking him,” Stevie says harshly, hearing the edge in his voice and not altogether unhappy about it.

Redders reacts, just a small minute movement that could have grown into a flinch if he hadn’t forced himself to be still.

“We’re both consenting adults,” he says coolly, “not really your business what we do.”

When did Redders get so much spine? Had he always had it or did he get it now, finding new strength in fighting for Jamie? Were they in love?

“When did you start?” Stevie asks again, stubborn.

“It’s been a little while.” He’s being ambiguous on purpose, being difficult on purpose, just to irk Stevie even more, and it’s working.

“Like since before the divorce?”

“Like since after it wasn’t your business anymore who he slept with. Like after he spent weeks crying over you,” Redders says through gritted teeth.

“Well, you two must not have that much time together anyway, what with him living in Liverpool and you up in London.” There’s a forced calm in his voice, like the eye of the storm.

He’s looking Redders right in the eye, as if the first one to break eye contact loses.

He’s the first one to break, distracted by the fact that Jamie’s back, by the way he lays a casual hand on Redders’ shoulder as he sits back down in his chair, pulling his napkin back into his lap.

The last thing Stevie wanted when he agreed to dinner was to hurt Jamie any more than he already had. But now he’s hurting, and suddenly he does want to hurt Jamie, wants to push into the bruise of them and see if he still aches there.

He asks him the same question.

“When did you start fucking Redders?”

“Not until after you left me, if that’s what you’re asking. Not until you got out of our bed and flew across the world, Steven.” He’s reminded of Jamie on the pitch, screaming at someone for making a defensive error, losing his mind over careless mistakes.

“How soon after? A day? A week? A month?” He’s being stubborn—it’s probably one of the worst things about him, and the awful thing is he’s fully aware of it, but he can’t stop himself from spilling out the venomous words.

“Not really your business, is it?” Redders intercedes, voice level. That’s even more aggravating, the fact that Redders is even here, the fact that he thinks he can get involved in this conversation, as if he has a right to speak when Stevie’s trying to talk to his husband—

“My husband is fucking another man and it’s not my business?”

“Ex,” Jamie says softly, “ex-husband, Steve.”

Stevie’s mouth snaps shut. Jamie glances at his jaw, and Stevie knows he’s looking at the muscle, jumping as he clenches his jaw.

“You’re the one who wanted it that way,” Jamie continues, still in that quiet, quiet voice, now laden with pain. It hits Stevie like a punch in the gut. “I didn’t put up a fight, did I? I let you go, even though it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Can’t you just—why do you have to do this to me now?”

Stevie blinks, feeling a stinging in the corners of his eyes and willing the tears to wait, just a little while longer, just until he can get away from them, into a taxi.

“Are you happy?” he asks finally, voice rough, because in the end, that’s all that really matters. He doesn’t deserve to be happy, but Jamie does. Jamie deserves the whole world.

“Sometimes. I get close to happy, sometimes.”

“You broke his heart,” Redders says, anger finally coming through, “is that what you wanted to know? That you hurt him? You wanted to know that he was upset? Well, you tore his life apart, Stevie.”

Stevie flinches at the words, but Redders isn’t done yet.

“You know what? You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.”

It’s nothing that Stevie hasn’t thought to himself a thousand times over, but it hurts so much more coming from someone else, from someone who gets to hold Jamie in his arms, who gets to kiss him and laugh at his jokes and sip coffee with him in the morning, when he’s too sleepy to talk.

“Redders, please.” That’s all Jamie has to say, and Redders heels, like a fucking dog. Stevie wonders if he ever puts up a fight. Jamie had liked that about him, that he didn’t just roll over and let him have it his way every single time. At least Stevie had thought Jamie’d liked it. Maybe he’d been wrong about that, too.

“J, he _hurt_ you,” Redders protests, not quite ready to give up, “he deserves to know what he did.”

“He’s hurting too,” Jamie says finally, voice less steady than he’d like it to be, “I don’t need protecting, love. Not from him.”

Stevie wants to vomit. He can’t stand it, the wavering of Jamie’s voice, the sound of him calling someone else love—does he call him that in bed, too? Does he lay back for him and beg for more, endearments coming thick and fast as Redders presses into him?

Redders says something, but Stevie can’t quite make it out, lost in his own head and not tuning back in until Jamie speaks, pleading for them all to just be friends again.

“Can we?” Stevie asks, and now the brittleness is in his voice, “we were married for eight years, J. How can I go back to being your friend?” He hates himself, for being so weak and pathetic that he walked right into this, knowing full well that it would be painful and miserable. “I shouldn’t have come—you shouldn’t have invited me, J—“

Jamie says something else, about how he feels like a bone two dogs are fighting over, and Redders—stupid perfect Redders—promptly apologizes, eager to get back into his good graces, and probably trying to show off how much better he is than Stevie.

He closes his eyes, swallows past the lump in his throat, and nods his agreement to stay civil. For Jamie’s sake.

Jamie brings up some memory, and the conversation slips into banter mode, reminiscing about baggy kits and scrawny arms. It starts off stilted, but Stevie’s capable of compartmentalizing as much as the next guy, and it almost feels genuine by the end of it, though he spends most of the time not directly responding to Redders’ words.

The two of them—Jamie and Redders, that is—share a dessert that practically makes Stevie gain a pound just by looking at it. Early in his career, nobody would have cared, but these days, they stuck a caliper into your stomach nearly every week to measure body fat percentage, and this—it wouldn’t go over well, and the last thing he needs is to be slower than he already is.

But he does look, swallowing the saliva that fills his mouth at the scent of the rich chocolate brownie.

Jamie, as always, sees right through him, and offers him his spoon.

Stevie takes it, taking a chunk of the brownie and a good bit of ice cream and guiding it into his mouth. He closes his eyes as he chews, and he can imagine dozens of other times they’d done this, sitting across the table from each other and tasting it all over again when they kissed each other at home, before their clothes hit the floor and they slid into bed, arms wrapped around each other, making love or watching telly or whispering stories or dreams or strange thoughts.

He opens his eyes just in time to catch Jamie staring at his lips. He smiles, and Jamie watches that, too, catching his eye for just a second before tearing himself away to say something to Redders.

But his eyes find Stevie again a moment later, and Stevie holds onto them, hoping his eyes say everything that his mouth can’t.

His phone buzzes, Robbie telling him he’d better get back before ten, because they were supposed to get out early tomorrow morning to go back to LA.

He stands up, regretting the fact that he has to go, but relieved at the same time that he can just be, somewhere where Jamie’s eyes—and Redders’ eyes—won’t see him, somewhere he won’t have to put on a brave face, as if his life isn’t completely falling apart around him.

Jamie leads them out, and he’s the first out the door when Stevie speaks.

“Redders, can I have a quick word?” he asks politely.

Redders looks wary, mostly, but nods.

“Take care of him,” he says, much to his own surprise, “I hate the fact that he’s with you. I fucking _hate_ it. He was mine for so long—and it’s harder than I thought it would be, to let go of that all of a sudden. But I still love him—I’m probably always going to love him, and he deserves to be happy. And if you can make him happy, then—well, then that’s enough. Don’t—don’t invite me to the wedding or anything, but—all that matters is that he’s happy.”

Redders looks at him with respect in his eyes for the first time all night. “From one man who loves him to another, I promise I’ll look after him,” he says quietly.

Stevie nods, blinking back tears, and mutters a quick goodbye before exiting the restaurant into the warm air.

He says goodbye to Jamie—how strange, to say goodbye to him as if they were nothing but old friends—and gets in the taxi.

Somehow, he makes it all the way back into the hotel room before he starts crying, at the sight of Robbie’s sympathetic expression.

\---  
  


Robbie’s good in a crisis, and Stevie’s glad that it isn’t Keano here with him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. Robbie pulls him into the room, sitting him on the bed and settling right next to him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“That bad, huh?” He murmurs into Stevie’s hair.

“I think he might love him,” Stevie whispers, “what if he loves him, Rob?”

Robbie’s quiet for a long moment, rocking him back and forth like his mother used to, when he was a little boy and hurt himself.

“Then you loved him first,” he says finally, “and he loved you first, and nothing can beat that first love.”

They sit in silence for awhile longer, until Stevie can’t cry anymore, until his throat is dry and his eyes burn and he pulls away to get himself some water.

“What do you want out of this?” Robbie asks him when he’s calm. “Do you want to get back together? Do you just want him to love you while you get to run around with whoever?”

“I just want somebody to know me like he knows me,” Stevie says quietly, “I just want somebody to love me. I don’t want to start all over again with someone new and teach them all about me, do shitty small talk—I want to talk about how my mum and my brother’s wife had a tiff and have him automatically know why. I want to show him videos of my nephews and have them call him Uncle Jamie—I want someone I can have kids with, someday, once we’re both ready—someone to share my life with.”

Robbie smiles, a small, sad twist of his lips, and rubs his back. “Sounds like there’s only one man for that job, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure people probably have a bit more time at home these days, so it might be worth posting a chapter! I haven't had much time to write, and this is as much as I've written, so the next chapter is probably awhile off, but I hope you enjoyed this one!
> 
> Stay healthy, stay safe, stay home, and wash your hands!


	4. Chapter 4

Jamie’s phone rings in the middle of spin class. He glances at it, blinking away the sweat in his eyes, and does a double take.

Carefully, he slows down, until his feet are completely still, and he clicks his shoes out of their locked position in the pedals, picking up the phone and leaving the room without a single word to anyone.

“Everything alright, Carra?” Gary calls out to him.

He waves a hand, not quite able to speak. He lifts a shoulder to swipe at his face, trying to get rid of the sweat before answering the call.

“Hey,” he says, hearing his own too-fast breathing, “I think you might’ve called me by mistake, Steve—“

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Stevie says quietly, “I needed to talk to someone, someone who understands, and—and I knew you would, and I just wanted to talk to you. Are you okay? You sound—out of breath? Did you run across the room to grab the phone or something?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He hears the teasing in his own voice—somehow, he always forgets how easy it is to talk to Stevie, even now. “I was, uh, I was in spin class.”

“Oh, it just ended or something?”

Jamie pauses, glad it’s not a video call. “No, it’s still going. I left.”

“For me? I’m gonna get a big head, Jaybird,” Stevie’s doing it too, it’s all over his voice, and it almost feels like fifteen years ago, when they’d first begun dancing around each other.

“Didn’t think it could get bigger,” Jamie says lightly, stomach going warm at Stevie’s chuckle-snort of laughter.

“I spent my life with you,” Stevie’s voice is all tender now, “you always kept me in line.”

Jamie coughs, clearing his throat because he doesn’t know what to say to say other than _please come home_. He thinks for a moment, hears the heavy silence between them. “So why are you calling?” Ugh, that sounds aggressive, he realizes almost instantly, and goes to course correct. “I mean what made you call me?”

“I’m trying to figure out what’s next, and I couldn’t think of anyone I trust more than you.”

“What’s next?” He’s not asking, really, just wants some sort of clarification on what that even means.

“I want to come back,” Stevie says, voice so low Jamie can hardly even hear him. “I’m ready to go home now.”

“I—okay.” Jamie doesn’t have anything else to say, really. A quiet voice pipes up at the back of his head, and he stifles it immediately, not willing to take the chance. “What do you mean by home?”

“I know—I don’t have any right to want anything from you,” Stevie stammers, “not—not _that_. I know you’re with Redders now. Just—I want to come back to England. I miss being home. I want to be in Liverpool if I can, near my family. Near the people I love. Near you.”

_You are my family,_ Jamie wants to say, _that’s what it meant when we made that vow, when we said I do. _

“Okay,” he says instead, “what are you looking for? Playing, coaching, punditry?”

They end up talking for almost two hours. By the end, his shirt is dry, and his skin is all tacky from dried up sweat that he hadn’t showered off. He probably stinks, too. But he’s surprisingly happy. He’d almost forgotten how easy it was to talk to Stevie, how much they made each other laugh, how well they knew each other. He gets off the phone and feels lighter, somehow, even though Stevie’s the one who called for advice.

\---

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Redders says quietly.

“What?” Jamie’s veins turn to ice. In the initial shock, he finds himself wondering what the hell’s wrong with him, to have two breakups in one year.

“You still love him, J.”

“I don’t—“

“Please don’t lie to me,” Redders says softly, sounding almost vulnerable.

“I don’t!” Jamie swallows the _want to_ that should go at the end of the sentence.

“If he and I were trapped in a burning building and you could only save one of us, which would it be?” Redders looks resigned, like he already knows.

_Stevie._

“That’s not a fair question—“ Jamie stammers.

“If he rang the bell right now and asked you to run away with him, what would you say?”

_Yes._

“He’s not going to do that—“

“If he was on one knee, asking you to marry him all over again, would you send him away?”

Jamie’s treacherous heart leaps. It’s just a stupid hypothetical question, yet still he feels an ache in his chest, a phantom pain at the mere _idea_ of sending Stevie away—

_No. I don’t think I could ever ask him to leave._

“He’s not—that’s not going to happen!”

“I love you,” Redders yells, the first time he’s ever raised his voice at Jamie. “I fucking _love_ you, James. Can you say you feel the same?”

“I do,” Jamie says, weak, unconvincing.

“J, please, _please_ could you just not lie to me? Can you just tell me the truth this time? I need to hear you say it.”

“You said you could wait—you said you would wait!”

“I thought I could! But J, you _know_ how painful it is to love someone who doesn’t love you back. And I—he loves you too. It was written all over his face in New York, that first moment he saw you, like you were there to save him—he’s going to come back one day, and I don’t think I can take you leaving me then, two, three years down the line.”

“He doesn’t love me,” Jamie says quietly, voice fragile, “he doesn’t love me, Redders. He left me—he _left_ me!”

“He fucked up,” Redders agrees, “and I can’t understand anybody who would hurt you like that, anybody who could leave you, but he made a mistake. He’s going to try again.”

“Please don’t go,” Jamie begs, “please—“

“I love you,” Redders says helplessly, even now giving him another chance to say it back.

“I—I’m so sorry.” Jamie can’t even meet his eyes anymore, vision blurred with tears.

“Next time you come to London, pick up your things,” Redders says quietly, “and leave the key. And—and text me, so I can be out, okay? Please.”

Jamie nods, pulling him in tight for a hug.

“I wish you weren’t going,” he says roughly, “I wish you could stay—but you deserve so much more than—well, you know.”

_Than a man who loves someone else_. He doesn’t say the words, but then again, he doesn’t have to say them for Redders to hear them.

Redders clears his throat, eyes looking suspiciously wet, and spends one long, last moment looking at him.

“Take care of yourself, okay? Please.”

Jamie nods, clearing his throat to say something, but not quite able to get past the lump in his throat.

Redders nods back, drawing the farewell out for just a moment longer, and walks out of the house.

\---  
  


It’s easier to adjust to being alone, this time. He does cry, that first night, when he finds himself alone in his bed again. He hasn’t had to sleep alone much for the past twenty years, and he’s only learning now how much he hates it. He drinks more coffee and throws himself into work at the foundation.

He asks a discreet producer if he could not to be put on Soccer Saturday for a few weeks. He doesn’t give up the whole truth, just says that he and Redders had a bit of a falling out. He’s not quite sure he’s ready to see Redders at work and be professional. He’s not ready to sit across the studio from him and remember what it was like to hold him at night, to be held by him, to be inside him—he’s not ready to think about that and look at Redders’ beautiful face and know that it’s never going to happen again.

He feels like a coward for doing it. But he can be a coward for once in his life. It’s something he can live with.

Stevie calls again a few days after the breakup, wanting to discuss possible options. Jamie’s tired, from having to sleep alone again. He hasn’t slept well alone since he was a teenager. He feels a burst of anger when he sees who’s calling. It’s _Stevie’s_ fault that Redders left, after all. If they hadn’t gone to that match, if Stevie hadn’t seen them, hadn’t had dinner with them... If Stevie just made it easier to stop loving him, maybe Redders would still be spending his nights in Jamie’s bed.

He considers screening the call. There are a dozen excuses ready for why he couldn’t pick up the phone, after all. Work, a match, dinner, drinks, meeting up with a friend, something for the foundation, hanging out with his family…

But it’s Stevie. That shouldn’t mean anything anymore. _They_ shouldn’t mean anything anymore. But the fact of the matter is that Jamie still thinks of him as _husband_, in the privacy of his own thoughts, before common sense kicks in and adds _ex_\- in front of it, a vicious pinch to wake him up to the reality of the situation.

It’s _Stevie_, and that shouldn’t mean anything anymore, but it does and it always will.

He accepts the call.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Hey, Jaybird. Is—is this a bad time?” Stevie sounds hesitant, concerned, like the friend Jamie had known before he’d known him as a lover.

“Nah, I’m just a bit tired, didn’t sleep well last night.” It’s a lie of omission, which would still count if they were still married, but doesn’t now that they’re not. Every divorcé lies about something, as far as Jamie can tell.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Just, uh. Redders and I—never mind.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Stevie’s voice is ever so slightly bitter, like he wanted to hide it but couldn’t.

“You could say that.” _I don’t owe you anything_, Jamie thinks. _You _left_. You don’t get to know these things about me anymore. _But it hurts, and he wants to tell someone, and Stevie’s the only person asking at the minute.

“Uh, he left.”

“Well, space can be a good thing,” Stevie offers, trying to be supportive.

“No—“ Jamie inhales deeply, trying not to lose it. “You don’t understand. He left me.”

“What? Why the fuck would he do that, is he out of his _mind_?!”

“No, he was very clear about his reasons.” Jamie says with a quiet sigh.

“I’m sorry, Jaybird. You deserve to be happy, and I—well, from what I saw, he was good to you.”

“He was. Probably better than I deserved.”

“You deserve to be happy,” Stevie repeats.

Jamie laughs bitterly. “Apparently not.”

It’s quiet on the line for a few moments.

“Why did you stop loving me?” Jamie asks finally, because he knows why Redders left, but he still doesn’t know why Stevie left, and sometimes he can deal with it, but sometimes it eats him alive, the not knowing. “Was it—was it something I did? Was it someone else? Did you fall in love with someone else?”

“Honestly?” Stevie asks.

“I don’t care if it’s a lie. Just make me feel better.” Jamie begs.

“Sweetheart,” Stevie says tenderly, and the word hits Jamie like a punch in the gut. “I never stopped loving you. I had no _idea_—I was homesick. I felt so fucking _alone_, and I thought—I thought that meant I didn’t love you anymore. I didn’t call, so I thought that must mean I didn’t love you. But I didn’t even call my _parents_, love. I didn’t even call Paulie. I wasn’t close to my new teammates at first, either. I was just _depressed_.”

Jamie’s heart sinks. “You should have _told_ me—I would’ve quit and moved out there with you in a heartbeat, if you just asked, Steven. You just had to _ask_, I would’ve gone anywhere for you.”

“I just—I don’t know, Jaybird. I can’t even describe it. I couldn’t get out of bed, sometimes, unless I had training. I didn’t _want_ to talk to people, I’d leave right after training, come back to the house. I didn’t know—I didn’t _know_. I thought it was _us_, our marriage, but I was wrong. As soon as I ended it and came back here… it was worse than ever.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say what, love?” Stevie asks softly, “I’m sorry I broke your heart? I’m sorry I barely touched you in the whole month I was at home? I’m sorry I made you cry and made you drink? I’m sorry I made you sleep alone, even though I _know _you hate it, because I thought it would be selfish of me to sleep next to you, to let you hold me? What could I have said? It was too late. I couldn’t do anything to fix it. I didn’t deserve anything from you.”

“And what about me? Didn’t _I_ deserve anything from _you_? Didn’t I deserve to be held by my _husband_ after he’d been away for six months?” The first tear spills over, and a moment later, Jamie’s crying, trying to remember how to breathe, remembering how painful it had all been, to have Stevie turn away from him in bed, turn away so Jamie’s kisses landed on his cheek.

“You _did_.” Stevie’s crying now too, trying to be quiet about it. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. You did, and I didn’t—I didn’t give it to you. And I just—I hurt you so much, and I hated myself for that, and I didn’t deserve you anymore. I deserved to hurt. And then—and then you started to look a little happier when I watched you on Sky. You started laughing again, and I didn’t know _why_ until I saw you that day with Redders. After that… I knew I still loved you, but I knew that I brought it upon myself, and I knew you’d be happier with him than you were with me.”

They’re both crying, and Jamie wishes more than anything that Stevie was in the same room, that he could see him, that they could hold each other, that he could feel his warmth again.

“I _tried_. I tried so hard, Steve. I _tried_ not to love you anymore, but—it’s so hard. It’s so _hard_, love, when I spent my whole life with you. He told me—when we first started, he told me he’d wait for me to get over you. But then we had dinner that night, and you were the only person in the room. I couldn’t look away. And I knew it was hurting him, and I didn’t care. I’d do it again, if it meant I got to see you.”

“Jay—“ Stevie breathes, almost reverent. It takes Jamie back to nights in bed, at home or in hotels, or in houses by the beach, to the times they’d gotten carried away in the locker room or on the couch in the living room. He’d always loved it, that breathy whisper Stevie did when he couldn’t say it out loud.

“I—I slept with someone in LA, after we signed the papers. I was in the bathroom, and when I got out, he was looking through my nightstand. He was looking at the watch you got me for Christmas, and I wanted to _rip_ it out of his hands, because _you_ gave it to me, because _my husband_ gave it to me, and how dare he fucking _touch_ it, you know? And I never—I just never had men come back to my place, after that.”

“Is that—are you lying to make me feel better?” Jamie can hear the wavering in his voice, the way it trembles and shakes. “Is this all true?”

“It’s the truth,” Stevie whispers, “I—you were happy with Redders, I thought. I wasn’t going to tell you. I figured you deserved a chance to be happy. I couldn’t break your heart again, Jamie. My James.”

“You hurt me so much,” Jamie whispers, “_so much_, Stevie. I spent so long wondering what I did wrong, if it was—if it was my body, or—or my hair going gray—whether you had someone younger and prettier—“

“It wasn’t. I like your salt and pepper,” Stevie says firmly, “and I don’t care that it’s a little more salt and a little less pepper—it suits you. And what do you mean, your body? You’re still stupid fit! I mean, come on, Jay, it’s almost unfair—it was never about that. It was never about you, it was about me.”

“So you didn’t find someone younger and prettier?”

“I—I tried, after everything ended. I thought if I could just find someone close by, maybe that was all I needed. Didn’t care if they were older or younger, but Robbie’s the one who took me around, I guess the places he chose, there were a lot of younger guys there.”

“And?”

“And I dated this one guy for awhile. Tried to make it work, but he didn’t _know_ me, Jaybird. And every time he fucked up—every time he didn’t know how I took my tea, or how I like my eggs… I just thought about you, and missed you, and the way we just—we knew each other so well. I never let him stay the night. I just—I wanted someone who knew me, and nobody knows me like you do.”

Jamie sniffs and wipes at his face. “Go get a tissue,” he mumbles into the phone, “your nose gets all runny when you cry.”

Stevie laughs wetly, and there’s the sound of footsteps, a door opening, as Stevie listens.

“So. What do we do now?” Jamie asks softly, realizing that he’s cradling the phone to his ear.

“I’m not—you shouldn’t trust me again. Not for awhile. I’m going to come back to England. We’ll figure things out, how to move forward. Look, Jaybird—I don’t have all the answers. I just want you in my life.”

“Let’s start with being friends again,” Jamie says, and as soon as the words are out, they feel _right_, in a way that nothing really has in months. “I’ve fucking _missed_ you, mate. And the way we did it the first time, that was good, right? It felt natural. Let’s do it like that again, be friends and just… see where it takes us.”

“Okay,” Stevie agrees. There’s the odd, wet sound of him blowing his nose, and Jamie settles, somehow. Stevie’s hurting, too. He didn’t just walk away without a scratch when Jamie had been bleeding out on the rug they’d picked together.

_I love you_, he thinks, surprised at how easily the words come. He doesn’t say it yet, though, can’t.

He thinks back to the first time they’d said them. They’d been at Stevie’s parents’ place, on the sofa, shirts rucked up so they could feel skin on skin. Stevie had been on top of him, and the words had spilled from his kiss-swollen lips, thoughtless and true. He’d had barely finished before Jamie was surging up to kiss him. He’d repeated them back to him, punctuating each word with a kiss to the tender skin of Stevie’s neck.

In retrospect, it made sense that Stevie had said it first. He’d always been the brave one.

“So, uh, why did you call? I’m guessing it wasn’t to hear that Redders dumped me,” he says, trying to smile. It still hurts, though.

“I wanted to talk over some things—so I’ve got an offer in from MK Dons to be a player-manager. And then a few coaching gigs. Couple clubs in Italy even offered me a contract to play, but I think they’ve got an eye to the future and want a manager long-term, y’know? What do you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a little while since I've written football fic. This chapter is shorter than I'd like it to be, but I think it ends at a place I'm comfortable with. It's a little rushed, but hopefully will help me get back into the flow of these two characters. 
> 
> Also, this chapter was not at all supposed to go this way, and they were not supposed to get sappy and emotional!!! but I guess I'll let it go just this once.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s easy, falling back into friendship with Stevie. It’s different from the first time. The first time, they didn’t have texting. They’d had to find moments to call each other, and Stevie’d still been living at home with his parents, which meant that Jamie would sometimes call the house and get one of his parents or his brother picking up the phone. He could hear the knowing in their voices, the soft amusement of his parents, the unspoken warning from Paulie because Stevie will always be his baby brother, _so don’t you fucking hurt him, Carra_.

They’d been friends, and the flirting had slipped in gradually, with more daring touches carefully interspersed with the daily casual contact. The jokes had softened, mixed in with compliments. There had been long looks, quickly averting their eyes each time they got caught staring.

Stevie hadn’t broken his heart then. Jamie hadn’t known him inside and out, then. He hadn’t known the taste of wine on his lips. He hadn’t known the feeling of his body under him and over him and inside him and surrounding him then. He does, now.

He also knows the feeling of sleeping alone in cold sheets, the restlessness of his legs when Stevie’s aren’t there to still them, the way his arm feels empty when it’s not slung around Stevie’s middle.

\---  
  


“So, how’s operation get-your-man-back going?” Robbie asks him a few days later.

Stevie smiles. “I called him the other day. It’s like the flirting comes so easy, you know? And then he remembers that I’m the guy who ruined his life, and _I_ remember that I ruined his life, and then the hurt comes in. But we’re working through it, I think.”

“So it’s back on, then? Congrats, man, that’s huge, really.” Robbie reaches out and claps him on the shoulder, squeezing gently.

“No—it’s complicated. We’re, uh, friends. I guess. Until we decide to move on to being more. Until he trusts me again.”

“And what about his boyfriend?”

“Redders? He, uh, left him. He was pretty upset about it when we spoke.”

“Do you think he’s in love with him?”

Stevie shakes his head, feeling his mouth curl into a small smile. “He said when I was there, there was nobody else in the room.”

“Okay, that’s pretty fucking cute,” Robbie admits.

“It’s always been hard for him to express how he feels. Neither of us are great with words. That’s probably why the distance broke us. We were always best when we were close, when we could show it instead of having to say it.”

Robbie looks at him for a moment. “Y’know, I wasn’t sure if you really meant it, before. I thought maybe you were just lonely, wanted someone familiar. But you get this _look_ on your face when you talk about him. You light up.”

Stevie feels his cheeks heating up. “No I don’t, that’s ridiculous,” he mumbles.

“You really do,” Robbie teases, “it’s very sweet.”

Stevie reaches out and shoves him playfully.

“Hey, you know how I’m designing a new clothing line?”

_Weren’t we talking about _my_ problems?_ Stevie thinks but yeah, he’s talked about it a few times.

“Yeah, mate, you’ve mentioned it.”

“Why don’t you model for it? Then you can send the pictures to your man, remind him that it’s not just _friendship_ he wants.”

“I’m no model!”

“You have a six-pack and a pretty good tan, decent hair, good features… With the right lighting, you could be,” Robbie says matter-of-factly.

Stevie doesn’t know quite what to say to that.

So he says yes.

\---  
  


The shoot is pretty tame at first. He sits in a chair, his legs spread with jeans that are tighter than he normally favors, an olive green collared polo on top that fits close to his chest and stomach.

He tolerates it, changes the outfits and sits and smolders as best he can at the camera or at the distance, whichever the photographer asks for.

Finally, Robbie holds up a pair of swim trunks.

“You’re kidding me,” Stevie blurts out.

“Nope. Come on, this is gonna be the money shot—see if he can resist after you send him _this_!”

He hesitates, but he takes the trunks eventually.

He feels… _exposed_. Nudity is part of his job, in the very contained atmosphere of the locker room, and he’s pretty comfortable with it. He’s never been shy about stripping down or going into the showers, at least. But this feels different—part of the thing about the locker room is that the vulnerability is mutual—everyone’s naked in there. Here, he’s the only one, and everyone is _staring_ at him, trying to make him look sexy. They’re all appraising him, evaluating him, not on how well he kicks a ball, but on his muscles, whether they’re the right size and shape, whether they’re flexed enough.

He remembers Jamie, back when they’d been modeling one of the Liverpool lines, mumbling that their bodies were built for function, not for looks.

“Okay, this isn’t working,” the photographer announces. “You’re clearly uncomfortable, and it’s showing.”

“I just—“ he looks down, unsure of where that sentence was headed.

“Here, maybe adding something will help—“ Robbie suggests, heading over to the costumer, looking for sunglasses, hats, and finding a small, subtle chain.

“This would look good on you, Steve.”

“Uh, I’m not a big, uh, necklace guy?”

“Just try it on, man, it can’t be worse than before.”

So Stevie does try it, and it’s a little better, but not much.

The photographer calls it again and he goes over to his own things, remembers his wallet, and the small metal circle he has tucked away inside.

He doesn’t even know why he does it, but he takes out the ring and slips it through the chain before putting it back on.

The ring Jamie had picked out for him, back on his skin for the first time since he’d taken it off all those months ago. It reminds him of the reasons he’s doing this. The metal is cool at first, but it warms against his skin and it feels good.

He pretends he’s looking at Jamie. He sprawls back on the towel they’ve laid out specifically for this part of the photo shoot, legs extended, and props himself up on his elbows, smiling faintly.

“Get that—if you don’t get that shot, I _swear_—“ Robbie orders.

“I got it, I got it!”

“Give me more of that, Steve, that was great!”

Stevie reaches up absently and toys with the ring, and he hears the click of the camera.

“Now lay on your stomach and turn your head back as if you’re looking at someone.”

“What?!”

“Come on, Steve, you’ve worked hard for that ass, haven’t you? Show it off!”

_Uh, I’m not big on showing off my ass,_ he thinks awkwardly, but he turns, and lifts his chest, almost like a position from that brief and ridiculous flirtation Brendan had had with yoga during the preseason tour a few years back. Jamie had been there, then, laughing and making a soft _meow_ sound during the cat-cow move. Everybody had laughed, and Stevie had thought to himself, _that’s my husband, the one who made everyone laugh. He sleeps in my bed at night. He kisses me good morning. He might make everyone laugh, but I’m the one who makes _him_ laugh. _

He smiles a little, thinking about it, and the camera clicks again.

“Good man, I think we’re just about done here,” Robbie says happily, “Steve, you can get changed—feel free to take any of these home with you, and I’ll see you at training tomorrow, okay?”

\---  
  


Stevie sends him a picture of himself modeling his teammate’s new fashion line.

_I look stupid, don’t I? Robbie wouldn’t take no for an answer!_ the message says, with a sheepish smiley face.

Jamie looks at the picture for a long moment, takes in the shape of his neck, the way the collar of the shirt comes up to hide the bottom of it. He lets himself move further down, taking in the way the shirt is snug on his chest and looser on his stomach, the way the jeans are fitted close to his thighs.

_No._ He sends in his reply. _You look good, Steve._

Perhaps he shouldn’t have given him the positive reinforcement, because then he keeps it going, sends selfies of himself before training. One day, he sends one of himself in bed with a pout because he’s never been a morning person and apparently that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. He’s not wearing a shirt, the white of the duvet setting off his golden skin even more.

Jamie always responds.

_Have fun at training_, he’ll say.

Or _get out of bed, lazy boy_. He’ll add a kissy face sometimes, then delete it, then add it back, then delete it again and send the message.

It’s not hard to figure out the game Stevie’s playing. He never sends pictures after training, when he’s sweaty and gross, after all, only when he’s fresh and clean before. And it’s hardly subtle, sending a man a picture of himself in bed, pouting to draw attention to those lips Jamie’s had permanently etched into his memory for over a decade.

Jamie smiles whenever he gets a picture, though. It’s sweet, that Stevie feels the need to remind him of his attractiveness, as if Jamie was capable of forgetting how beautiful he was.

_What do you think of this one?_ Stevie asks one day, sending over a picture of himself in tight blue swim trunks.

Jamie mentally waves a white flag, spending far too long staring at the bulge between Stevie’s legs.

_Have mercy on me_, he responds. _I’m just a man_.

He shifts his gaze upwards, makes himself look away from the way the blue fabric lays against his tan skin, how beautiful it looks. He looks at Stevie’s abs, remembers the feeling of that skin under his mouth, the way it would redden when he worried at it with his teeth. He remembers the way Stevie would gasp when he did, so softly, so sweetly, completely unexaggerated.

He looks up and his heart stops. There, on his chest, is the ring that Jamie gave him. It’s his wedding ring.

The thing is, Jamie remembers the day he bought that ring. He’d dragged both his brothers out to the store, had stayed in there for two hours, until they’d gotten bored and left him there alone.

He’d stayed for another hour after that, perusing through all the options, and when he found it, he’d stopped in his tracks. There were more yet that he hadn’t seen, but he didn’t care. He knew that _this_ was going to be the ring he proposed to Stevie with.

And after they’d gotten engaged, he’d spent nearly as much time online, reading through archives of poetry and song lyrics, trying to figure out what he wanted to engrave on the inside of it, what message he wanted Stevie to have and to hold, for better or for worse.

The thing is, Jamie doesn’t _have_ his ring anymore. He’d given it to Stevie, the morning after Stevie’d asked for a divorce.

Jamie picks up the phone and calls him.

“Hi, Jaybird,” he says, sounding a little smug, glad that the picture was enough to get Jamie to call him.

“How _dare_ you,” Jamie hisses, “I gave you that ring because I _loved_ you. You broke it off and then you turn around and wear it in a goddamn photoshoot to hawk your teammate’s swim trunks? Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Steven?”

“I—I don’t understand—why are you upset?” Stevie sounds confused and hurt.

“We were _happy_,” Jamie shouts, “we were _happy_, and you _ruined_ it. You don’t _get_ to wear that ring, not again, not until I decide to give it back to you, do you understand? It’s not a _toy_! _I’m_ not a toy you can play with whenever you want! Love me when you want to, stop when you get bored, come back when you miss me—this is not a fucking _joke_—“

It’s just perfect that now he’s _crying_ again. Jamie’s getting pretty sick and tired of crying over this man.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” Stevie whispers, “I just thought—I like having you with me, Jay, that’s all. It’s a way of keeping you close. I usually keep it in my wallet, but I just—they gave me a chain to wear at the shoot, and it felt right.”

“But I don’t get to _have_ that,” Jamie says miserably, “I don’t _get_ to have you close anymore. I gave you my ring and then you _left_. I don’t have anything of yours anymore, Stevie.”

“If I could leave right now and come home to you, I would,” Stevie says softly, “I’d come back to you and never leave again. But I’ve got to wait out the rest of the season, sweetheart, you know that.”

_But I don’t know if you’ll ever come back after_, Jamie wants to say. _I don’t know if you’ll love me after. Or if I’ll love you, knowing you’ve been with other people and I’ve been with Redders. Maybe we won’t work anymore. What if we don’t work anymore? What if we never get it back?_

“Just—just don’t wear your ring,” he says roughly, “not until—not until you’re back here and I say you can.”

“Okay, Jaybird. I won’t. Talk to me, love. What are you thinking about?”

Jamie laughs a little. “What else? I’m thinking about you. It’s always you.”

Stevie draws him back out, eases him into conversation about work and football and asks after his family and his nieces and nephews.

“They miss you,” Jamie admits, “Nick asked me the other day when Uncle Stevie would come back. I don’t think they fully get that we’re di—not together anymore.”

“Paulie’s boys ask about you, too,” Stevie admits wearily, “and so does Mum. Paulie keeps asking what you did wrong, why I did it. And I don’t know how to say _I was in the middle of being homesick and depressed and it was all my fault and you were _always_ there, the _best_ husband I could’ve _ever_ asked for_—“

“I could’ve been better,” Jamie interrupts. It had taken him awhile to realize that. He’d had to get some distance from the pain of it, but he had gotten there in the end. “I could’ve been better, Steve. Could’ve reached out to you, when you weren’t reaching out to me. Could’ve come out to see you—I just—you just seemed _happy_, without me. You seemed okay.”

“I was just faking it. And nobody noticed. So it’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

“We’ll split it,” Jamie says gently, “sixty-forty.”

“Who’s taking the sixty?”

“You are! You didn’t say anything, even when you got back here, when we were in bed, or eating breakfast together. I was _right there_, and instead of talking to me, you broke it off, Steve. You’re definitely the sixty.”

Stevie sighs heavily. “Yeah. I’m definitely the sixty.”

“And I’m sorry about blowing up about the ring—just. It’s your _wedding ring_, Steve. And we’re not married anymore. I just—it hit me, like a two-footed tackle. You’re running and suddenly the ground is gone from under your feet and you’re on your back and you don’t know how it happened. That’s—that’s how it felt, seeing you in the ring I bought you, because I _remember_ putting it on your finger, love. And I remember you taking it off, because you didn’t want to be married to me anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Stevie says quietly, “I won’t wear it again.”

“Good.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Stevie clears his throat. “Does this mean I can’t wear the watch, either?”

Jamie can’t for the life of him explain why, but his heart leaps at the thought of Stevie wearing the watch he’d given him for Christmas. He can’t articulate the difference between the watch and the ring, but—but there _is_ a difference.

“You can still wear the watch,” he says, voice a little too soft, “I like seeing it on you.”

“Oh.” There’s a smile in Stevie’s voice, just a small one. He pauses. “So, did you like the rest of the picture?”

“It was alright,” Jamie says nonchalantly, because he isn’t going to give in and stoke the man’s ego right after an argument.

But of course Stevie knows Jamie, too, just as much as he knows Stevie. So he can probably figure out that Jamie’s faking it.

“That blue looks good on you,” he concedes finally, “but you’re going to lose that tan once you come home, y’know.”

“But you like me even when I’m pale, don’t you?”

“You’re alright.” It’s the same faux understatement as before, and Stevie laughs.

Jamie has a flash of realization after he hangs up the phone. This is how it used to be, before. They’d fight—they were grown men, both stubborn, and they’d fight now and again, but then they’d make up. They were both hot-tempered, Jamie a little bit more so, but neither of them held onto their anger for long. It didn’t linger. It was part of why they’d been so good together, according to Jamie’s mother.

Oh God, his mother. She’s going to freak out when she hears that they might be getting back together. She’d turned on Stevie the moment she’d found out, and if he comes back… Jamie doesn’t hold onto resentment, but his mother can, and it might be harder for Stevie to win _her_ back than to win Jamie himself back.

\---

It’s fitting, actually, that Stevie’s MLS career ends not with a bang, but with a whimper.

They go to penalties against Denver. He makes his, but two of his teammates don’t, and that’s that. He walks off the pitch with a feeling of relief, and a feeling of shame at the relief. What kind of man is relieved to lose a game of football?

He gets back to his hotel room that night and texts Jamie.

_I’m coming home. _

He shouldn’t get a response—Jamie should be in bed, asleep. But he does.

_Today?_

Stevie frowns at the phone. The old insomnia’s back, it seems. Jamie had always had insomnia when they were young, but he’d seemed to get past it years ago, and he’d always slept soundly when Stevie was next to him—

But Stevie’s not next to him anymore, and he hates himself for it, a sharp and vicious pang in his chest.

_I’ll need a few days to get the house packed up, find a place in Liverpool, then I’ll fly back. _

There’s a long moment, which he spends looking at the few pictures Jamie had sent him, in an effort to get him back for the modeling pictures.

Jamie in a suit, getting ready to present for MNF.

Jamie in workout clothes, face red and shiny with perspiration after spin class, blowing a kiss at the camera.

Jamie, taking a selfie with Gary Neville and sending it to him with the objective of making him jealous.

Stevie responds accordingly, in the gentle flirting they’ve been carrying on with for weeks now.

An eyes emoji for the suit, followed by a heart eyes.

A heart for the sweaty picture that Jamie had probably sent as a joke, but Stevie had saved it anyway. He’d fallen in love with Jamie when he was sweaty and smiling, on a cloudy day years upon years ago. The hair is different now, more sophisticated than a basic buzzcut, more gray and white than dark brown, but that smile’s still the same, and so are those cheekbones, and those beautiful eyes, bracketed in gentle lines.

A playful angry face at the picture with Neville, with the words _tell the Manc not to get too handsy with my man!!_

He’d hesitated with that one, hadn’t known whether Jamie would reject the possessive pronoun, whether it would set him off again like the ring had. He’d gone back and deleted the last three words before sending it in the end.

It takes awhile for Jamie to respond, and Stevie can imagine him, writing and then deleting and typing and deleting until he finds something that feels right.

_Maybe when you get here, we can get a drink sometime?_

Jamie’s not his yet, as easy and fun as it is to flirt with him. They’re not back to where they used to be. They might never get back to where they used to be, but they will move forward, together, if Stevie has anything to say about it.

_Jamie Carragher, are you asking me out?_ He types and then promptly deletes. They’re not there yet.

_I’d like that._ It’s short and honest and not too much, he doesn’t think. He hits send.

\---

In the end, he packs up his clothes, sells most of the furniture and puts the house up for sale.

Then, he goes round to Robbie’s and says goodbye. Keano is his ride to the airport.

“You’ve seemed better, lately,” he says in his familiar Irish voice.

“Jamie and I are working through it.”

“Workin’ through a _divorce_?” Keano asks incredulously.

“Looks like it, yeah. He’s my guy, y’know? And I’m his, if he wants me. And for some reason I can’t understand, he still does. Even after everything, he still wants me.” He can feel that smile on his face, the one that Robbie had called _very sweet_, and shakes his head a little in disbelief.

“So that’s it, then? You go back home, put the rings back on, back to being married?”

“I wish it was that easy. I’m going to go and win him back. Convince him it’s worth giving it another go.”

Keano exhales a little. “Well, good luck to you, Stevie. Don’t be a stranger, yeah? Call once in awhile, it wouldn’t kill you.” He gets out of the car, helps Stevie get his bags out, and gives him a hug goodbye.

“Take care, Keano.”

“You too, mate. Give Jamie my love, yeah?”

Stevie stops and glares at him playfully. “Your _love_? You got something to tell me, Keano?”

“Ah, _fuck_ off—“

“I’ll tell him you said hi,” Stevie compromises, letting a little smile out, “bye now.”

Keano says goodbye and waves, leaning back against the car and watching him walk away before he gets back into the car and drives away.

From now on, Los Angeles will be only for vacations, and Stevie’s completely okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up, finally!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Jamie knows that Stevie’s back. Every time he leaves his house, he dreads running into him. He’s wanted to see him for so long, and feared seeing him just as long. He has hopes for their meeting, little fantasies that when they meet, Stevie will drop whatever he’s holding (groceries, in Jamie’s imagination), and run over to him, pulling Jamie into his arms and whispering his apologies against his neck, holding him so tight that Jamie knows in his heart that he’ll never leave again.

He has fears, too. He’s afraid that Stevie’s built him up into some sort of saint, put him up on a pedestal, and when he sees him again, he’ll just be disappointed at Jamie’s humanness, at his flaws, at the lines on his face and the size of his muscles and the sound of his laughter.

So he lives with these competing emotions, and he knows that the precarious balance can’t last long, because the city isn’t huge, and all his favorite places are places that Stevie loved too, and will want to visit upon coming home.

\---  
Jamie’s been running for awhile, and he keeps doing it, partially in a weak attempt to prove to himself that he isn’t going to change his life just because Stevie’s back in the city.

So he runs his same routes, in his favorite parts of the city.

He’s running when he sees him. He’s got his nephews with him, holding his hand and talking his ear off. They haven’t spotted him yet, and Jamie takes the opportunity to look at him, at his face, reveling in the nearness of it, the way he smiles at his younger nephew, who’s holding his hand and swinging it, excited to have his favorite uncle back.

Maybe they won’t see him, he thinks. There’s a fork in the path, after all, and he veers off towards it. Only it’s too late.

The older one, Matt, is eight years old with the eyes of an eagle. “Uncle Jamie!” he calls out, and then he’s running across the grass, not listening to Stevie’s orders to _wait, don’t run off_—

Jamie turns around and finds himself with an armful of little boy as he launches himself up into his arms. It’s strange, how easily he catches him, how natural it feels.

“Uncle Jamie, Uncle Jamie!”

“Hey, kiddo,” Jamie says warmly, setting him down, “how are you doing?”

“Good! Where have you been? It’s been _ages_ since we saw you! Uncle Stevie came back, why don’t you come visit us for dinner anymore? We miss you! And I miss Lizzie and Davey and even the babies, we haven’t seen them in so long!”

Jamie pauses, hadn’t quite considered that the divorce had done more than split Jamie and Stevie apart. It had also split apart their families, and even the children had been affected, his nieces and nephews not getting to play with Matt and James.

“I’m sorry about that, kiddo,” Jamie says softly, “I’ll have you all come over so you can play together again, okay?”

“That would be so fun! Can you and me play football with Uncle Stevie and Baby James?”

Little James is running along behind, as fast as his little four-year-old legs can carry him, and Stevie’s following at a fast walk.

“I am NOT a baby!” James bellows, before he sees Jamie and launches himself into his arms, pushing his big brother away with a surprising show of force for such a little body.

“No, sweetheart, you’re not a baby,” Jamie coos to him, “you’re my big boy! I haven’t seen you in so long, have you gotten bigger? Oof, soon I won’t be able to pick you up anymore!”

Stevie finally approaches, face settled in a carefully neutral expression.

Jamie relaxes a little—he’s scared, too. The bravest man he’s ever known, and he’s scared, too.

“Matty, what were you thinking!” he snaps at his nephew, “I might expect that from James, but you’re older. You’re supposed to set a good example for your brother!”

“I saw Uncle Jamie! I had to go say hi,” Matt says, utterly unrepentant.

“What if it wasn’t Uncle Jamie? What if it was a stranger?” Stevie demands.

“Then I wouldn’t want to say hi anyway,” Matt responds reasonably.

Jamie hides his smile against James’ hair, the little boy refusing to let go of him.

“I’m sweaty, sweetheart,” he says mildly to the little boy. “I’m all stinky!”

The boy sticks his nose right into Jamie’s neck and takes a long sniff. “Not stinky! Just… wet.”

Jamie laughs. “Well, thank you, kiddo.”

“James,” Stevie says softly, voice raw with emotion.

Both Jamie and James turn to look at him.

“Uncle Stevie? Are you ‘kay?” James asks, reaching out for him with one arm.

“Yeah, baby, I’m okay.” He doesn’t his eyes off Jamie for a second, doesn’t even react when James repeats emphatically that he is _not_ a baby.

“Hi, Steve,” Jamie says softly, and that’s all it takes. Stevie steps forward and pulls him in for a hug, little James squashed between them.

James squirms, struggling to be let down, and Jamie pulls back just enough to set him down, then hugs Stevie properly, feels the familiarity of Stevie’s body against his. It feels like he’s the one coming home, even though he never left.

“Quit being gross!” Matt demands, after graciously allowing them to hug for awhile.

“I missed you,” Stevie whispers to him, quiet enough that the kids don’t hear, the words pressed against his neck.

“I missed you, too.”

Stevie pulls away, eyes looking a little wet for a moment before he clears his throat and composes himself.

“Do you, uh, wanna come with us on our walk? We’re going to the playground.”

“I was in the middle of a run,” Jamie says apologetically.

“Right, of course. Obviously. It was, uh, nice to see you again, and maybe we can grab that drink sometime soon—“

“I’m, uh, pretty tired,” Jamie interrupts, “maybe a nice little cool down walk is exactly what I need.”

God, he hopes he doesn’t smell. Please don’t let him smell the first time he sees his husband in four months. _Ex-husband_, a small voice reminds him.

Stevie smiles at him, and the rest of the world disappears. There’s only Stevie’s smile and the tug of James on his hand, pulling him forward.

“Will you push me on the swings?”

“Course I will, sweetheart, whatever you want,” he agrees. He was not ready for the full impact of that smile, he thinks. That _smile_.

Stevie walks close to him, their arms and fingers brushing with every step.

They sit on the bench while they watch the kids run around on the playground, going up the stairs and then down the slide and repeating the process over and over until they get bored of it.

“So,” Jamie starts, “how’ve you been? You’ve been back for a few days now, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been good. It’s been good, being back home. I—I meant to call you, just—I didn’t have much time.”

“Oh no, that’s fine, I know you’re busy!” the conversation is awkward, stilted.

“I was scared,” Stevie admits quietly, “I wasn’t busy. I was just scared.”

Jamie sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

He looks at Stevie’s hand, considering whether it would be too much to intertwine their fingers, and smiles when he sees the watch there, the same buttery-soft leather strap he’d agonized over in the store.

He reaches out and takes Stevie’s hand in his own. Stevie grips him back, slips his fingers in between Jamie’s.

“Can I buy you dinner?” Stevie asks.

“Uncle Jamie, come push me!” James hollers, struggling to lift himself up into the swing, watching his brother swing himself up high next to him.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Jamie calls out with a smile. “I’d like that,” he says to Stevie softly, “we’ll figure out a time and date once I finish with my favorite boys, okay?”

Stevie smiles. Jamie’s a little more ready for it this time, it doesn’t know him off his feet in the same way. But it’s still gorgeous. He’s still in love with this man.

He gets up and walks over to the swings to stop himself from planting a kiss on Steven Gerrard in a public park in broad daylight.

He lifts James up into the swing and waits for him to hold on tight before he pushes him, hearing him squeal in excitement as he gets higher and higher.

“I missed you so much, Uncle Jamie!” James says sweetly, as they head to the ice cream place nearby.

“Me too,” Matt agrees, and he’s getting to an age where he isn’t quite so ready to agree with his brother, so it must mean something.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I wasn’t around much this past few months,” Jamie says quietly, laying a hand on Matt’s thin, bony shoulder and squeezing gently. “I’ll be around more, okay? I didn’t know you guys missed me, or I would’ve come by before.”

“Daddy was mad at you,” James blurts out, “he said we couldn’t play with you anymore.”

“He’s not mad anymore,” Stevie interjects, “I’ll talk to him. He—it was a mistake.”

He and Stevie try not to stare at each other, but end up doing so anyway, and when their eyes meet, they look away. It reminds Jamie of when they were young, just barely starting out, the way they’d studied each other in the locker room, taken in the contours of each other’s bodies covertly. This is different—he takes in every strand of Stevie’s hair, the way the lines on his face deepen attractively when one of the kids makes him laugh. He’d missed him, and photographs were nice, but they didn’t even come close to this, to Stevie sitting at the same table as him, their feet nudged up against each other. They linger, trying to eke out the moment as long as they can, eating their ice cream slowly, but eventually, Stevie has to drop the kids off at home again.

“You look good,” Stevie says to him quietly.

“I’m covered in sweat,” Jamie points out, smiling a little.

“Still. You always look good.”

“You look good too. I missed your face.”

“Come with us, Jaybird,” Stevie says, when he turns to head back to the car, laying a hand on Jamie’s wrist.

Jamie wonders if it’s pathetic, how quickly he turns back around, how fast he agrees. But then there’s a little hand in his before they cross the road, chattering about preschool drama, how Sean wouldn’t share his toys and Jess went and told the teacher on him, and Jamie pauses, thinks about the dreams he’s had about him and Stevie having their own little one someday.

Stevie drops the boys off, and they go running to the door, telling their mother about how much fun they’d had. She waves at Stevie, still sitting in the car.

“I’ll drop you off at home,” Stevie offers. Maybe he doesn’t want this to end, either, Jamie thinks.

“Yeah, okay.”

They sit in the car, parked in front of the house that used to be theirs and is now just Jamie’s.

It’s quiet. Jamie considers the last time Stevie was in this house, the way he’d left Jamie in bed that night, the way he’d tucked the covers in around him so he wouldn’t get cold. The gesture had nearly made him cry.

He turns to face Stevie and meets his eyes, sees a tenderness in them that he hasn’t seen in months.

He looks at him, at the expression on that dear, familiar face, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world, to lean in and kiss his husband.

They sit there, the center console between them. It’s not the sort of kiss they’d had when they were younger, desperate for more, as if someone would come and take the chance away from them.

It was the sort of kiss they’d had after they’d been together for awhile. It’s enough, the press of their lips against each other, the way their noses brush gently. His hand on Stevie’s jaw, holding him steady, not letting him go, Stevie leaning into it as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. It’s enough.

It’s more than enough, Jamie thinks. It’s everything.

When finally they pull apart from each other, Stevie leans in again, almost swaying, and Jamie can’t help but smile.

“Good night, love,” he says quietly, slipping out of the car.

“Night, Jaybird,” Stevie says softly, in the moment before Jamie closes the car door.

Jamie stops at the doorway and looks back at him. He’s still sitting in his car, and Jamie wonders whether he should invite him inside, invite him into his house, into his bed, into his arms all over again.

He’s still considering it when Stevie decides for him, giving him a little wave and reversing down the driveway.

_There he goes_, Jamie thinks, _always saving me from myself_.

That night, Jamie dreams of those lips on his throat, trailing down, an unbuttoned shirt hanging loosely on his shoulders, the heat of Stevie’s hands on his body, holding him with the ease of familiarity, holding him confidently, as if he owns him. Jamie thinks maybe he does, because in this moment, he knows that he belongs to Steven Gerrard, and he was insane to ever think he could make himself stop.

\---  
  


He’s so gorgeous, Stevie thinks. He looks—it’s been decades since the first time they met, and yet somehow, he looks exactly the same. On a conscious level, he knows that isn’t true, knows that Jamie’s taller and stronger now than he was at eighteen, that he’s older, has lines around his eyes that he didn’t have twenty, that his hair is streaked with grey now when it was dark brown in his youth.

But something in Stevie recognizes him, something deeper than his conscious mind. Something recognizes him, knows him, gravitates towards him, and he can’t stop himself from thinking _oh, he looks just the same. Just as beautiful as the day I met him._

He’d watched how easily he’d picked up his nephew and settled him on his hip, the way James had looked up at him with stars in his eyes, completely hanging off his every word. The way Matt had talked to him so seriously about schoolwork and football while James had sat in his lap and eaten his ice cream, listening intently and occasionally chiming in with his own anecdotes.

He’d stared openly, because Jamie was busy catching up with the boys, and it hits Stevie suddenly, what he did when he walked out of their home that day, what that did to their families. He’d walked away from Jamie Carragher that day. He hadn’t known that he was walking away from his nephews’ uncle, from his mother’s favorite in-law, from his father’s golf buddy.

Their lives had been so deeply intertwined, and he’d tried to rip them apart, and in doing so, he hurt _everyone_, not just Jamie.

He lays down in his own bed that night, and considers his ex-husband. He marvels at his capacity to forgive, at the way he’d hugged him, as if he’d never left in the first place, just come back from an away match. He marvels at the way those full lips, the ones he’d noticed at first glance years ago, had felt when they were pressed against his. It had been since New Years, he thinks, ten months since he’s been kissed by Jamie Carragher.

This one is _so_ much better. Jamie had been sober, this time round, and it hadn’t been a goodbye kiss. It was a kiss hello, evidence of their new start.

He smiles, thinking about Jamie proposing that they be friends over the phone. That might have worked the first time, when they hadn’t already been in love, when they hadn’t already been married.

It won’t work this time, because they’re already far past friendship.

He dreams of Jamie’s flesh under his lips, the way he whimpers when Stevie bites at his chest, soothing over the pain with a kiss. He dreams of the way Jamie sounds, when he’s falling over the edge, holding onto Stevie so _tight_, as if he’s the only thing left in the world.

He dreams that he and Jamie are married again, rings warm under the sun as they walk hand in hand. Their child is there, the child that they’d dreamed up, with Jamie’s lips and Stevie’s nose and Jamie’s hairline and Stevie’s chin and Jamie’s cheekbones and Stevie’s eyebrows and Jamie’s eyes.

He runs back to them, their boy does, and they both kneel down to hug him.

He wakes with wet cheeks, unsure why he’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is in the home stretch now. I anticipate no more than four more chapters before it concludes.


	7. Chapter 7

Stevie opts for a new restaurant. It hadn’t been there when he’d left the city, and it’s free of any emotional baggage. It’s not where they had their first date, or where Jamie proposed to him, quietly reaching across the table and asking him the most important question of his life.

It’s a fresh start, in a fresh place. Stevie thinks—hopes—that Jamie will appreciate that.

He wears a powder blue dress shirt, because Jamie had once said that blue looked good on him, and dark gray pants that are from Robbie’s line, tighter than he likes them, but he knows Jamie likes his legs.

When he gets to their home—Jamie’s, now, he pauses for a moment. He remembers looking for houses, the way this one had stopped Jamie in his tracks. Jamie hasn’t been able to look away from the house and Stevie hadn’t been able to look away from him, from the look on his face.

They’d made an offer that same day, signed the papers the next day, and a few weeks later, they’d moved in, christening every single room, giggling and kissing each other just because. They’d been giddy, high off the joy of being in love and having their new dream home.

He remembers walking out of that house that night, knowing that Jamie was laying in their bed, watching him go and wishing he’d stay. He’d looked at the house, taking a moment to memorize the structure before getting into the taxi.

He inhales deeply and walks up to the front door, ringing the bell and ignoring how wrong it feels to ring the bell when it’s his own house.

Jamie opens the door quickly, and Stevie wonders whether he was waiting for him, whether he was ready too early the way Stevie was, whether he paced in the living room the way Stevie had.

He’s wearing a deep navy shirt, a short-sleeved polo, that hugs his biceps and his pectorals, over light-colored jeans.

It’s a _crime_, how good he looks. A crime against Stevie, specifically.

“Wow,” he says softly, instantly realizing how stupid it sounds and wishing he could come up with something better. “I—you look incredible, J.”

Jamie smiles a little, looks him up and down and shrugs. “You’re alright, too, I guess,” he says, a feigned nonchalance that makes Stevie want to take him inside. He wants to press him against the sofa and kiss him until he admits that he thinks Stevie’s attractive, wants to drag him up the stairs and take him apart in their bedroom, wants to take off those clothes and see the flesh underneath—

Stevie clears his throat. “Ready to go?”

Jamie nods. They walk to the car, and Stevie knows it might be overkill, but he still opens the car door for him, shrugging at Jamie’s look of surprise. Jamie sits down and Stevie closes the door behind him before making his way around the car to the driver’s side.

“I picked a new place for tonight,” he says, “it’s French. I haven’t been before, so I hope it’s good—“

It is. Freshly baked bread, perfectly cooked steaks, some vegetables they must’ve done some magic to.

He’s nervous—he and Jamie had never run out of things to talk about before, but the last time they’d had dinner together had been painfully awkward, thanks to Redders’ presence.

“So, how’s work?” Stevie finds himself asking, as if this is a first date with a stranger and not dinner with the man he’d been in love with for over a decade.

“Yeah, it’s good. I can finally look Redders in the eye again, so that makes life a little bit easier.”

“You don’t always do matches when he’s on, it couldn’t have been that awkward, right?”

Jamie shrugs. “We’re not always on air together, but we’re both around the studio a lot—sometimes one of us is prepping for a show while the other one is getting ready to shoot. Plus some of the other boys knew. Gary’s pretty good about keeping quiet, but Thierry was a bit…nosy.”

“Yeah? How’s Gary, then? When you first started there, you two had that chemistry, after a little bit, and it almost made me jealous, y’know.”

Jamie pauses, looks at him. “I never knew that. You never said anything.”

Stevie shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t want to be that guy, J. I didn’t want to be the nagging, jealous husband, just because you were working well with someone else. And I dunno, I guess I just missed you. We’d been together so long, at work, at home—sometimes I’d look over in the dressing room to where you used to change, just to look at you, and you wouldn’t be there.”

Jamie leans forward. “We—it was a lot, being together and working together. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing. But yeah, I missed you too. But the whole thing was strange—I wasn’t used to going into the studio, I was self-conscious about the way I talked, and it wasn’t just that you weren’t there—nobody was, really, except Redders and Gary.”

“Redders was there?” Okay, so despite what Stevie has told himself about being a modern and well-adjusted man and not a possessive teenager, there is still a little flicker of jealousy in his stomach.

“For the first few shows, yeah. Just until I got used to it. He didn’t come on air, didn’t make a fuss about it, he’d just be around in the dressing room before, come out and watch the game with us for a bit, ask me and Gary to go out for post-show drinks.”

He must’ve liked what he was seeing, even then, Stevie thinks uncharitably. It’s completely unfair—when Jamie had started, Redders had been head over heels for his wife, but recent events weigh heavy in Stevie’s mind these days.

“That’s nice of him,” he says instead. “I’m glad you had someone there, weren’t just left to Gary’s mercy.”

Jamie laughs a little. “Oh please, as if Gary has any mercy,” he says with a grin.

Stevie snorts.

“So what about you, then?” Jamie asks him. He looks nervous, fiddling with his fork, turning it this way and that instead of eating the steak he’d ordered. “What are you thinking about? What’s next?”

“Dessert, I’m hoping.” He pitches his voice a little lower, allows the innuendo to sink in.

“No, I meant—“

“I know, love. I don’t know. Going to LA was just—I made that decision too fast, we didn’t talk about it enough, didn’t plan it out properly, and it—it fucked me up. I don’t want to do that again. I’m going to take my time, try to figure things out and be sure of what I want, that I pick something that will make me happy.”

Jamie’s eyes soften as he looks at him, and he leans in a little closer. Stevie knows that look. That’s Jamie’s _I want to kiss you_ look. It’s his _I would go to the ends of the earth to make you happy look_. It’s his—

It’s his _I am so in love with you_ look.

“It’s probably a good idea not to move too fast,” Stevie stammers, more to convince himself than to convince Jamie, because if Jamie keeps looking at him this way, he will drag him to the bathroom and kiss him and sink to his knees and—

“No, don’t decide too quickly about what’s next,” Jamie agrees softly.

“In work and with us,” Stevie elaborates. “I just—I fucked it up once, I’m not doing it again. I just don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Then don’t.”

When Jamie says it, it’s the simplest thing in the world. Stevie’ll just stay with him, kiss him awake every morning, make love to him every night, hold him until he falls asleep, be held by him in turn…

His chest tightens with the strength of that desire, the simple security of knowing that he has a partner in his life, that he knows exactly who to call when he needs to talk about things. The quiet certainty that he isn’t alone, that he’ll never have to be alone again. That was LA. LA, despite Robbie and Keano’s best efforts, was lonely. He’d been alone, even when he’d had another man in his bed. But with Jamie, he’ll never have to feel alone again.

“I’m going to therapy,” he blurts out.

Jamie blinks at him, caught off guard.

“I just—I can’t let you down again. I’m going until I figure out what happened, and why it happened, and why I did what I did, and how I could have done it better. I owe you that.”

The look is back. The _I take this man to have and to hold, for better or for worse _look_. _Stevie wishes they were at home, so Jamie could hold him, so he could feel Jamie’s heartbeat against his chest, so he could lay next to him in bed and whisper to him until they fell asleep, the way they’d done when they were teenagers.

At the same time, he’s achingly grateful, because as much as he wants that, he means what he’d said before, about wanting to make sure he’d be a good partner before getting back together with Jamie.

“How’s it going?” Jamie asks, in the quiet that falls in between them. “The therapy, how’s it going?”

“It’s good,” Stevie admits, “it helps. She’s neutral, she—she has space for me, but she tells me when I’ve hurt other people and when I’ve messed up, and it’s—I needed it.”

Jamie reaches across the table and takes his hand. Stevie wishes he hadn’t—his palms are sweaty and clammy and he prays that Jamie won’t notice.

But he just squeezes Stevie’s fingers in between his own, and asks after Stevie’s nephews—always a safe subject.

He pauses. “Mum always thought you’d make a really good dad,” he admits, not quite able to meet Stevie’s eyes. “She was always on me about getting the paperwork started, but you—you were playing, and then you went to LA, and it was just—“

“Not a good time,” Stevie agrees. He’d always liked Jamie’s mother. “She must hate me now, though. Broke her baby’s heart.”

Jamie’s smile is soft and pained, and Stevie knows it’s true, knows that the woman who had loved him like his own mother had stopped the moment he’d hurt her son.

“If you put the work in, she might forgive you,” he says finally. “She got the most of it, once you were gone, dealing with me and my moods. Used to come around a lot to make sure I was eating and not drinking too much.”

“And I bet she just _loved_ Redders,” Stevie mutters.

Jamie looks at him sharply, and Stevie wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Sorry, that wasn’t fair,” he admits.

They talk about other things for a little while, reminisce about old memories. Stevie thinks back to that dinner in New York, Jamie using nostalgia as a lifeline to keep all three of them involved in a conversation.

Do he and Jamie have a real chance at a future, or is this all they have left, just a shared past seen through rose-colored glasses?

Jamie turns down dessert, but he looks longingly at one of the items on the menu, and Stevie orders it for himself.

“Two spoons with that, please,” he says to the waiter.

Jamie chuckles quietly. “You always know. Even if I don’t say anything.”

“I’m—I was your husband,” Stevie says simply, “it’s my job to know what you need.”

“Just your job?” Jamie teases, and this, this brings them back to familiar ground. Flirting in a dimly lit restaurant, their ankles pressed against each other, the table seeming too wide because it’s keeping them apart.

“An honor. A privilege. Better than any trophy or medal I’ve ever won.” Stevie’s voice is quiet and sincere, and Jamie’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, his cheeks growing pink.

He smiles down at his beer. “You were never good at accepting compliments,” he remembers, “you always go red, Jaybird.”

He drives Jamie home that night. After he parks the car, Jamie lingers, sits there with him in the night, music from a playlist Stevie had made specifically for this date, with this man, playing quietly.

“I guess I shouldn’t invite you inside for a cup of coffee?” He sounds a little wistful.

_No, baby, I shouldn’t. I should go home, before I kiss you and drag you straight up to our bed and make love to you until you know in every bone in your body that I am yours and I’m never going to leave again—_

“I… wouldn’t mind a bit of coffee,” Stevie finds himself saying instead of the regretful denial he’d fully planned on until he opened his mouth.

Jamie lights up, and gets out of the car, waiting for Stevie to join him and taking his hand—how long has it been since they’ve walked like this? Hand in hand, from the car to the door of their house—Jamie’s house. Jamie unlocks the door, fumbling slightly with the key.

_He’s nervous_, Stevie realizes. _All this time, all the things we’ve said to each other, and I still make him nervous._ He wonders whether he should hate himself for it or be grateful that they could still do this to each other, even after all they’d been through.

The house is mostly the same. It’s a punch in the gut, the familiarity of it, being in this place again after so many years of living here. But there are small changes, too, new books on the shelves, a couple new throw pillows on the couch, a blanket folded neatly over the arm of the sofa.

Those new things strike him, too, and he can’t tell which is worse—the ways in which their home is the same, or the ways in which is isn’t.

The things he recognizes with bone-deep familiarity or the things he doesn’t, because he wasn’t there when they arrived.

The coffee table where Jamie would put his beer bottles, after Stevie had said he’d leave him.

The sofa, where he’d start off rigid and distant and end up falling into Stevie’s arms, begging to be held.

The cushions where they had sat on New Year’s Eve, watching the years of their marriage slip into the past and starting a new one, the press of Jamie’s lips to his at the stroke of twelve, the taste of stale beer in his mouth.

The stairs he’d climbed down later that night, after leaving Jamie alone in their bed, not granting him even a few more minutes. _I can drive you_, Jamie’d said, with a faint hint of hope in his sleep-roughened voice, and Stevie had said no, that he’d take a taxi.

“Love?” Jamie asks, touching his shoulder gently. “Are you alright?”

Stevie looks at him, takes in the form of his body as if he’s seeing it for the first time, appreciating the shade of his skin and the gray in his hair and the red of his mouth. The regret feels like it’s choking him.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. It, uh, it looks pretty much the same.”

Jamie smiles. “Yeah, well, my ex-husband didn’t put up much of a fight when it came to furniture and things,” he says lightly. It’s a joke, but all Stevie can think of is Jamie at the kitchen counter, asking him to fight, to go to marriage counseling, offering to move to America with him, and Stevie saying no.

“I should have.”

“Fought for the furniture?”

“Fought for you. For our marriage. I gave up on it too fast. Hell, I wouldn’t have fought for you if you didn’t tell me you’d left Redders. I thought, if he’s happy, that’s all that counts. I can live with it, I can be unhappy, as long as _he’s_ okay.”

Jamie takes his hand and holds on tight. “Well,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, “nobody I’ve ever met has made me even half as happy as you. And I don’t think that will ever change.”

“But nobody’s ever hurt you the way I did, either. Is that still worth it?”

Jamie mulls over the question, but he doesn’t let go of Stevie’s hand or throw him out, so that’s a promising beginning.

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally. “But I’ve loved you since I was nineteen. The only time I even came _close_ to regretting you was after you left, Steve. Yeah, I wondered if I’d wasted all my time on a failed relationship sometimes. With Redders, I kept using you as a measuring stick. We were _this_ far along before I knew I loved you, _this_ far along when I said it. At two years, we moved in together. At five years, I proposed, and we got married a couple of years later.

“So when I was with Redders, the whole time I’m doing this calculus in my head, trying to convert because we were so young, and I’m—I’m not young anymore. I don’t have any time to waste but I’m too old to be rushing into things. So I’m trying to convert our milestones, to figure out when the relationship needs to move on, when I should give up or keep fighting. And that’s when I realized, you’re always going to be my yardstick, for anyone I could ever be with for the rest of my life.”

“Do you regret asking me to marry you?” For a moment, Stevie feels an ache in his chest, gradually coming to realize that he has stopped breathing.

Jamie doesn’t answer right away. He looks around the house that was once their home, eyes taking in the whole room before they land on Stevie.

His eyes shine, just for a second, and then he looks away, blinking hard. “No,” he says roughly, “I don’t regret that. Not now.”

That’s a fair answer. Jamie must’ve regretted it, when they’d split up. But he doesn’t anymore, and that is more than enough. 

It’s everything. Stevie traces the minor scars on Jamie’s hands—from paper cuts or Paulie’s dog biting him once. There are scars from things as mundane as scraping his hand along furniture because he hadn’t been watching what he was doing or where, from scraping the pavement when they’d both been staggering home drunk and he’d toppled over. 

He follows them, the familiar roadmap life has carved into the man he loves. 

He uses just his eyes, at first. 

Then his fingers. 

He trace the scars a third time, with his lips. 

When he dares to look up, Jamie’s eyes are wet. 

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he orders, his fingers trembling in Stevie’s grip. 

“I won’t.” Stevie hesitates. Jamie’s got no reason to trust his word, so he tries to explain. He clears his throat and hopes that he won’t fuck this up. “I—I don’t think I could, J, even if I wanted to. I just can’t do this again. Can’t risk losing you again. Once was too much.” 

Jamie nods and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s the type of kiss they’ve never had before. It has the desperation of their first few kisses, finally breaking under the heavy, ever-present tension between them. But it also has the intimate knowledge of each other, desperate, not to discover new territory for the first time, but to return home after a long time away. 

“You should come to bed,” Jamie whispers against his neck, breathing a little heavier than before. 

_I did that_, Stevie thinks with a flicker of pride. _I took his breath away. _

“Yeah?” 

Jamie nods, and maybe it’s the effect of the wine, or the conversation, or the kiss, but his expression is so open, so honest and earnest— 

“I—should we start slower? I mean, I want to prove myself, J, I want to earn your trust again.” 

“We don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to. Just—just stay. Please.” There’s a hint of the desperation in Jamie’s voice, and it makes Stevie sad. It’s the desperation with which he’d asked him to come to bed on New Year’s Eve, after the clock had rung in a new year and they’d kissed, beer obscuring the taste of Jamie’s mouth. 

He remembers the nights Jamie had asked him to come to bed, the crestfallen look on his face when Stevie had refused. He can’t face that look again. 

Something in his face must give it away, because Jamie lights up and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers securely and leading him up the stairs.

They used to sleep in their underwear eight months of the year, Stevie remembers. Flesh against flesh, because they’d end up curled up together, the searing heat from Jamie’s skin flooding into his, the ice of his toes thawing under Jamie’s unflinching shins, warm against him.

The other four months, it was t-shirts and sweatpants, and Jamie’s hands would slip under cotton to lay against Stevie’s stomach, and Stevie would cover it with his own, their frigid fingers slowly warming under the covers.

He stays back, watches Jamie unbutton his shirt.

It’s such a familiar sight in such a familiar place—they could be coming back from a match, or training, or an interview, years ago.

But they’re not. It’s in the silver of Jamie’s hair. It’s in the way that Jamie takes off his dress shirt, but leaves on the white t-shirt underneath.

Jamie’s standing there, in a t-shirt and dress pants, and Stevie wonders what’s going to come next. Boxers? Sweatpants?

But Jamie pulls out a pair of pajama bottoms, ones that Stevie’s never seen before. “I’m just—“ he gestures at the bathroom, and goes.

They’ve known each other since they were children, Stevie thinks, feeling almost numb. Every day for years on end, they’d seen each other dressing and undressing, even before they got together.

But now, Jamie’s going to change in the bathroom.

Stevie wonders if he should borrow something of Jamie’s and change while he’s in the bathroom. Or should he wait until Jamie gets back? He doesn’t want to assume—but if Jamie’s getting dressed, surely Stevie should wear sweatpants, too…

This part of it is new. The constant overanalyzing every minute detail of the situation. The last time they’d even been close to this was when they’d first started out, afraid of ruining their friendship.

Stevie wonders whether Jamie and Redders slept in clothes, whether Redders knows the feeling of Jamie’s skin. Did Redders give him the pajama bottoms? Did they sleep skin to skin, too? Did Jamie let Redders put his cold toes on his calves, letting him take his body heat?

He’s still lost in thought when Jamie comes back.

“Hey.” Jamie has a slight question in his voice.

Stevie smiles at him. “I was just thinking.”

Jamie smirks a little. “Aw, did it hurt?”

Stevie can’t help but grin, reaching out and giving him a playful shove.

“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” he asks.

Jamie looks a bit taken aback at first—he’s thrown off by this distance between them, too, and that settles Stevie’s nerves, a little bit.

“Yeah, course.” Jamie fetches him a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt.

Stevie goes to the bathroom to change. He has a t-shirt on under his dress shirt, but he doesn’t even think before stripping it off, smelling the faint scent of Jamie on the borrowed shirt.

Jamie’s sitting up in bed when he gets back, and Stevie slips in next to him. Jamie lays down and they’re facing each other.

“Thank you for coming back.” Jamie whispers to him, reaching out and touching Stevie’s cheek.

Stevie closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“Thanks for letting me.”

In the moonlight, they talk to each other, until Jamie’s yawning. Stevie hesitates, still uncertain, but reaches out his arm, wrapping it around Jamie’s waist.

Jamie shifts in closer to him, laying his head down on Stevie’s chest.

Stevie falls asleep quickly, more quickly than he has since he signed for the Galaxy, and for once, he doesn’t dream.

\---  
  


He wakes alone in the morning, but the sheets smell of Jamie’s cologne and he hasn’t felt this rested in months, and that eases the sting of waking alone.

He gets up and changes back into his clothes from the night before, trying to shake the feeling of just having had a one-night stand.

_This is different_, he reminds himself. _I’m not sneaking out and losing his number. This is J._

_My James. _

His J, opening the door to the bathroom and wearing boxers, as if to truly test him. He’s rubbing a towel through damp hair and water still glistens on his skin, caught in the hair of his chest, trailing down his arms.

“Oh—I thought you were asleep—“ Jamie stutters, heading towards the closet and picking something out quickly.

“I was. I’m not anymore.” He refrains from saying anything else, but he can’t stop the flirtation from showing in his voice. He can’t stop himself from staring, either. This part hasn’t changed. His body still reacts to Jamie’s, on a cellular level. His skin recognizes Jamie’s, yearns for it.

The yearning goes unheard as Jamie gets dressed before he’s fully dried off, the t-shirt sticking a little in the damp of his chest hair.

Stevie wants to take it off, wants to touch the wet skin under the cotton.

He doesn’t. Instead, he wonders whether he should leave now, whether Jamie has plans today, whether he’s intruding.

_Come back to bed_, Stevie thinks fervently, unsure if he’s allowed to say it_. Just come back to bed and let’s stay here forever. _

Instead, when Jamie asks him to stay for breakfast, he says yes.

“But this is still part of our first date,” he clarifies, “you’ll have to plan something for the second one, J, or let me plan something.”

Jamie agrees with a roll of his eyes.

Jamie’s standing at the stove, cooking the eggs. Stevie stares at his back, recognizable even through the t-shirt he’s wearing.

He _sees_ him again, the way he used to. How could he not have seen him when he came back from LA? How could he have left?

He tucks the thought away for later. He takes a few steps forward and wraps his arms around Jamie’s waist, pressing his lips to Jamie’s neck.

Jamie turns and kisses him tenderly.

Stevie prays that he can see him for what he is, for the rest of their lives.

The eggs are burnt to a crisp when they remember them, but Stevie eats them anyway. He smiles the whole time.


	8. Chapter 8

They continue on in that way. 

There are more dates—cozy restaurants, walks in the park, takeout on the sofa while they watch _The Office_, watching matches together with a beer in hand.

(Just one beer, though, nursed slowly over the course of the ninety minutes. Stevie can’t help but keep an eye out. It’s never evolved into full-fledged alcoholism, but Jamie tends to lean on alcohol when he’s in pain, so Stevie can’t help but worry. But Jamie gives him nothing to worry about.)

After that first night, they don’t spend the night together. The first time had been—there had been too much in the air, and they hadn’t the words to work through it. It had been _incredible_, to hold Jamie while he slept, to wake up and flirt comfortably. It felt like their honeymoon, when Jamie had stood at the stove and Stevie had done his best to be, at best, a nuisance, and at worst, a fire hazard.

But at the same time, and for the _first_ time, there was hesitation in the air between them, the careful guarding of flesh from someone who already knew it.

\---  
  
Jamie’s running late. He and Gary had had post-show drinks and lost track of time, and they’d missed the train. They’d taken the next one instead, and of course when Jamie’d gotten out in Liverpool, it was dark and pouring rain.

His car starts screeching as he pulls into his driveway, and he puts on the brakes. Much to his surprise, there’s another car in the drive, and he’d been about to hit it. He’s sober, hours after they’d had a couple of beers, but he’s also tired and on auto-pilot after a long day.

He gets out and recognizes the car. He walks up to the driver’s side window, but it’s empty.

He’d be worried, if he didn’t recognize the car, if it hadn’t taken him to a French restaurant a few weeks ago, and an Italian one last weekend, and to Stevie’s nephew’s football game just a couple of days ago.

He walks up to his front door, and there he is, sitting on the porch and leaning against the wall, fast asleep.

“Stevie, love,” Jamie says softly, reaching down and shaking his shoulder.

Stevie awakes with a start, and it takes him a moment to get oriented, and then he’s scrambling to his feet.

“Hey,” he says, and he wraps Jamie in his arms. He’s warm and dry, though not for long, because Jamie’s a little damp from walking from the train station to the car and from the car to the door.

“Hey,” Jamie mumbles back against his neck. Something inside him settles. He’s tired, yes, but he feels a little less tired now. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Stevie nods against him. “Just—I wanted to see you. Forgot you’d be working today.”

“So instead of calling, you just sat in front of the house and took a nap?” Jamie teases.

“No. I, uh, I went back to mine, but I just wanted to see you, couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I ended up coming back an hour later, thinking maybe you’d be back by then, y’know? But you weren’t, and I thought about leaving. But I didn’t want to.”

Jamie feels a little warm. It feels good, to be the person that Stevie wants to be with. Stevie thinks he’s worth waiting for. God, he loves this man. He’s been trying to keep himself in check—he doesn’t want to get in over his head only for it to not work out.

On a rational level, he’s pretty sure he could stand it, losing Stevie again. The first time was agonizing, and he’s mostly recovered now, nearly a year afterwards. So yes, he could probably withstand it, that kind of pain again. But he would _really_ prefer not to.

On an emotional level, he’s prone to exaggeration. It’s when he lets his guard down, when he sees Stevie’s smile, or studies the swoop of his deep brown hair, or examines the stubble that Stevie trims it every day to keep it at the correct length. _I can’t lose you again_, he thinks, when he lets himself. _I couldn’t stand it._

He tries not to let himself. He tries to keep his mind from wandering to their years of marriage, or the years of dating before. He pretends to himself that this is brand new, that it’s crazy to be this besotted when they’re just dating and they haven’t even slept together yet.

He holds Stevie a little tighter, allows his arms to warm his cold, wet back.

“Let’s go inside,” he says quietly, and Stevie nods against him, loosening his grip.

Jamie takes his hand and leads him to the front door, unlocking it and heading inside with his bag.

“Tea?”

Stevie nods, even though it’s well into the evening at this point. “Do you still have trouble sleeping?” he asks. The implication is clear—_James_, _if you drink tea at this hour, you’ll be up all night. _

“Decaf,” Jamie amends, to avoid having to answer the question. 

Stevie glances at him quickly. Jamie should’ve known better than to try to get one past him. Stevie doesn’t miss a damn thing.

But he doesn’t say anything, just follows behind him to the kitchen.

“I used to dream about the morning after I told you I wanted to leave,” he says abruptly, “you were sitting here, crying. You had a cup of coffee in your hands.”

Jamie pauses, remembering that moment, remembering going to Stevie’s mother’s house to drop off a Christmas present for a man who didn’t want to be married to him anymore.

“I did, yeah. I don’t know what I was hoping for. I guess I wanted you to hold me, tell me that you’d changed your mind, that we’d go to counseling, therapy, whatever.”

“And I didn’t.”

“No,” Jamie agrees, “but you did come back, Steve. You came back, in the end.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about, actually. I—I got an offer, but I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

Jamie stills for a moment. He gets ahold of himself, though, and goes over to the pantry, pulling out the Haribo sweets that Stevie likes.

He sits down at the counter, pushing the candies over to Stevie. “Tell me about the offer,” he says quietly. His heart is thumping painfully in his chest. _Don’t leave again_, he thinks with all his heart. _Please, don’t leave me again_.

“It’s a coaching gig. U18s, for a Premier League club.”

“Well, you always got on pretty well with kids.”

“Yeah. I’m excited to get to work with them, they’re so young and talented and incredible, honestly. And it’s going to be more about developing them as individuals and as a team, less obsessed with results.”

“What club is it?” Jamie can’t stop himself from asking.

“It’s Liverpool,” Stevie admits softly.

Jamie’s heart lifts up and sings, and every inch between his lips and Stevie’s is an inch too much.

He rectifies that problem immediately.

“Are you happy?” Stevie asks him, once they’re done kissing, “do you think I should take it?”

Jamie laughs in disbelief. “It’s your dream. Or a step in that direction, at least.”

“It’s only one part of my dream,” Stevie says, avoiding his eyes. “There are other things that are more important. I want to be happy, too, love.”

Jamie takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs, and this time, they do not sleep.

Jamie takes him to their marriage bed and leans in, carefully undoing the buttons on Stevie’s shirt. He takes his time, feeling Stevie’s hesitation before he returns the favor.

He lightly places his hands on Stevie’s belt, waiting for Stevie to say something before he unbuckles it.

“It’s been so long,” Stevie says quietly, and he takes Jamie’s hands in his own and guides them to his belt buckle.

“Way too long,” Jamie agrees.

Their clothes litter the floor, and for the first time since they got divorced, they’re bare in front of each other. There’s no modesty, no wearing t-shirts or sweatpants, no flushing at the idea of being seen as they are.

“Come to bed.”

Stevie must have been waiting for permission, and when he gets it, he falls into bed with the same graceless ease as when they first made love. Jamie settles over his body, and when they first did this, he’d felt apprehensive, nervous. Now, he feels a sort of peace that he hasn’t felt in far too long. For the first time, he’s not worried that Stevie’s going to leave again. Not even in the furthest corner of his mind. It’s the easiest thing in the world, to kiss his husband, to press into him, to kiss the arch of his neck as he gasps.

The sex is _profound, _the sort of sex that changes relationships and the people in them. They sink into each other again for the first time, and Jamie remembers the feeling of Stevie’s fingers on his shoulders, urging him on, the look of Stevie’s hair as it gleams with sweat, the round of his mouth as he pants.

They’re not what they used to be. Jamie’s got grey in his hair. They’re both a little softer around the midsection than they were when they were still playing. Stevie’s lost a bit of muscle mass, in the process of returning to his body’s default scrawniness.

It’s perfect.

\---  
  


_3 months later_

Stevie’s settling in nicely. He’s getting to know his boys, their strengths and their weaknesses. He calls them his kids, almost automatically. Jamie gets this look in his eye when he says it, and it’s enough to make Stevie blush.

It’s getting serious. It was serious the whole time, Stevie thinks, but they couldn’t acknowledge it. Jamie couldn’t admit it to him, still afraid of getting hurt, and Stevie couldn’t say it and have Jamie believe him. But they’re getting comfortable with the seriousness of it.

Stevie’s been spending most of his nights over, and he’s got some of his clothes in their closet. On a couple of occasions already, he’s gotten up in the morning, gotten dressed, had breakfast with Jamie, and gone straight to work instead of back to his own place first.

“You can move back in, if you want to,” Jamie says one day, with a studied casualness. He isn’t meeting Stevie’s eyes, focused intently on the eggs he’s cooking.

Stevie waits for him to look up. He clears his throat when Jamie doesn’t, as stubborn as he’s always been. But then again, they’re both stubborn. It’s part of why it works.

“I’d like that, J.”

Jamie smiles at him, small and pleased, and Stevie kisses him on the cheek before heading off to the training ground.

“What’s got you in such a good mood, gaffer?” asks one of his kids.

“Had a good night,” Stevie says simply, and he thinks of the image of Jamie’s body in the moonlight, his pale skin, the soft curves and planes of his muscles.

The first time they’d moved in together, there’d been an adjustment period. They were both used to doing things their own way, and it took some time for them to find a way to live together—load the dishwasher Jamie’s way, make the bed Stevie’s way, arrange the bed so that Jamie got to be near the window and Stevie still got to be on the left side.

This time, it’s easier. Jamie comes over to his flat and helps him pack everything up. Stevie’s got some artwork he likes to look at, and they agree to hang it up in the living room and in the corridors, so he can walk past it every day. His clothes fit neatly in the closet, the bathroom’s got two sinks so they’re not stepping on each other’s toes.

Jamie’s already got a stock of his shampoo and his soap. He even brings out a bottle of Stevie’s cologne, dusty from being hidden away in the guest bathroom for months on end. Stevie wonders how much it had hurt, to see that bottle every day, after Stevie had walked away. But Jamie hadn’t tossed it, even then.

It blows Stevie away sometimes, the ways in which this man loves him.

\---  
  


_6 months later_

It’s been on Stevie’s mind for awhile now. The words crawl up his throat almost every night, and almost every night, he swallows them back down. But it’s been a year since he got back to Liverpool, three months since they started living together again. This house is their house again, he’s got the key, hanging on the ring next to his car keys.

The words crawl up his throat yet again, and this time, he doesn’t choke them back down. This time, he asks.

  
“What would you think about getting married again?”

Jamie looks at him, caught off guard by the question. “Is that something you’d want?” He’s intent, focused on Stevie in a way that would feel uncomfortable coming from anyone else. But this is Jamie, so all he feels is a little warmth at the back of his neck.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.” Still stubborn.

“I guess you did,” Stevie says, smiling wryly. “I’m happy, being with you. I’d like to get married again, but I would understand if you didn’t want to. And things are good, aren’t they? Things are good, the way they are. So if you don’t want to get married, we’ll still be okay. We don’t need a piece of paper to make us real. We’re already real.”

Jamie turns and cups Stevie’s cheek in his hand. He leans in and kisses him, almost chastely.

“We’re already real,” Jamie repeats, feeling the words out.

It’s not entirely unexpected—how much faith can Jamie put into an institution, into a relationship, that’s already failed him once? Yes, Stevie had wanted it, had wanted some sort of symbol to show that they’d rebuilt what they once had, but it’s okay that they won’t. He’s willing to spend the rest of his life convincing Jamie that he’s back for good.

Jamie’s distant that night, lost in his own thoughts. He snaps out of it when Stevie calls his name, but every time there’s a lull in the conversation, he seems to go to a different place.

Stevie wonders if he’s ruined it.

_Please, please_, he thinks to whoever might be listening, _don’t let me have ruined it. Not again._

Jamie, even if his mind is elsewhere, is still there in bed with him. He turns towards him finally, shifts so that he’s laying his head on Stevie’s shoulder, resting it against his neck.

“I’ll think about it,” he says softly, his breath warm against the skin of Stevie’s neck. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

A knot inside Stevie’s chest, one he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying around since he’d brought up the question, loosens gently. The air comes easier, even with the weight of Jamie’s head on his shoulder.

It’s not over. It’s not ruined. It’s not quite what he’d pictured—Jamie jumping enthusiastically into his arms and kissing him filthily—but it’s not what he’d feared, either—Jamie shutting down, turning cold, bringing up the fact that Stevie’d left the first time.

The blow that Stevie had braced himself for isn’t coming, and the tension he was carrying in his muscles loosens. He wraps an arm around Jamie and closes his eyes.

_Things are good just as they are_, he reminds himself. _Getting married would just be a bonus. The cherry on top. We don’t need it, _he says to himself_. We’re good. _

\---  
  


_2 years later_:

When it comes, it comes out of nowhere. Stevie’s half-dozing, ready to fall asleep, thinking haphazardly about formations and a new pairing for the back line, maybe playing an attacking mid as a false nine instead—

“I think I’m ready,” Jamie says from next to him in bed.

“Oh?” Stevie rolls over, ready for some unscheduled sex with a _very_ handsome man who somehow still puts up with him. He leans in and kisses him, reaching under the sheets.

Jamie laughs a little, which is not usually a sound Stevie associates with sex. Sure, they have fun, and when he kisses Jamie’s stomach, he always gets ticklish and can’t help but giggle, but this isn’t the same.

“To get married again,” Jamie clarifies, wrapping his hand around Stevie’s wrist to stop him.

Stevie’s suddenly wide awake.

“What? Is this—are you _proposing_?”

Jamie laughs again. “Nope. _You_ are, this time. I went last time, now it’s your turn. Make it good, okay? I’m just giving you permission to ask, when you’re ready.”

Stevie can’t help but grin, and Jamie rolls over under the pressure from Stevie’s hand. His laughter cuts off abruptly when Stevie settles his weight on top of him, leaning down to kiss the man who’s just agreed to be his husband all over again.

He kisses Jamie’s neck, one hand pulling ineffectually at his clothes from where they’re trapped in between their bodies.

“Ooh, sex before the wedding? You’re _bad_,” Jamie teases, and Stevie can’t believe he’s going to be spending the rest of his life with such a dork.

\---  
  


He agonizes over it. When Jamie had proposed, it had been perfect.

But before he can even plan a proposal, he realizes he’s going to have to have a very difficult conversation.

Jamie’s mother is going to murder him _on sight_.

They’d kept the divorce fairly quiet—Stevie’s told his mother and brother, and they’re happy to hear that they’re back together. But then again, who _wouldn’t_ be happy if their idiot son or brother was forgiven for the near-unforgivable by the love of his life? The fact of the matter is, no matter what Jamie’d said, Stevie’s the one at fault. He’s the one who brought pain and suffering down onto both of their heads.

Jamie’s mother is different. She’s famous in the family for her ability to hold onto a grudge, and Stevie’s gone and broken her son’s heart. It’s not the same as two kids breaking up, the way he and Jamie had done once or twice in their teens or early twenties. Steven had thrown fifteen years away. He’d walked away from his husband, left him alone to go to a different country and kick a ball around poorly for a few minutes.

\---  
  


He knocks on the door. She’s home, her car’s in the driveway. Whether she’ll open the door when she sees it’s him… well, he isn’t sure about that.

He steps back after knocking, waiting. He hears footsteps approaching the door, and it opens.

His ex-mother-in-law looks at him, and her expression flickers between disappointment and disgust before landing on mild disinterest.

“Steven,” she says coolly.

Full name. So that’s where they’re at.

“Hi, Mrs. Carra. Can I come in?”

She reluctantly opens the door and steps back. “If you must,” she mutters.

He walks in and goes to the living room.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” she asks him bluntly, arms folded across her chest.

“I—” He’s practiced this in his head a hundred times. Where have the words gone?

She waits.

He takes a deep breath. “I came to apologize. I’ve already apologized to Jamie, and he’s accepted, but I know it wasn’t just him that I hurt. I made the worst mistake of my life, leaving him. And I want to make it right. The only thing I want is for him to be happy. And for whatever reason, I seem to make him happy. And he—he’s the best person I’ve ever met, and since he took me back, I’m not doing anything to risk losing him again.”

She sighs. “My son is in love with you. And love… it blinds you to things. If you left him once, you could do it again. He may not want to believe that, but it’s true.”

“I’ve done a lot of work to regain his trust. I’ve been to therapy, trying to work out what went wrong, why I did it in the first place. J and I have talked about everything, and it was a mistake, but it’s a mistake we think we can get past.”

She pauses, looking at him. “So why are you here, then?”

_Inhale. Exhale. _Stevie reminds himself that he’s practiced this a thousand times. He can do it. Probably.

“Jamie didn’t ask my parents’ permission before he proposed. We were both grown men. But he did talk to them. He told them he’d take care of me, and love me, and he promised them that he’d do everything he could to make me happy. And now—now I’m telling you the same thing.

“I’m not looking for your permission, Mrs. Carra. We’ve talked about it already, and he gave me _his_ permission to propose, and that’s all I need. I just want you to know that I’m not the same man who left your son. I’ve grown since then. I’ve worked on myself. And I hope you and I can have a good relationship moving forward. I’m not asking you to forget how much he was hurting, or to pretend it never happened and just go back to what it was like before. I’m asking for a second chance.”

She lowers her arms. “Jamie could do much better,” she states quietly.

“I know.”

“He wasn’t the only one that missed you, you know.” She steps forward and wraps her arms around him, and with that, the last little doubt in Stevie’s head fades away.

\---  
  


He digs Jamie’s ring out from where it’s stashed away in the bedside table. He picks a date. It doesn’t need to be a big thing, and it’s just for them, anyway. He orders a meal from their favorite restaurant. Hell, he even buys candles, and then wonders if that was too much and waffles between wanting to use them and not wanting to be too sappy.

He orders Jamie’s Christmas present, smiling a little to himself.

The seasons change, and it gets colder. They start wearing clothes to bed, where they often end up taking them off. Jamie starts to dread going to the studio, the cold of the car followed by the cold of the train followed by the cold of a hotel room. Stevie’s kids are performing well, but away trips drag at his heels. It’s fun to travel when it’s warm, in the spring and summer and even in the early autumn, but in the winter, he’d rather just stay home with his toes tucked under Jamie’s thighs on the sofa, sipping warm tea.

\---  
  
Christmas is coming up, and Jamie’s still got to go down to London the night of Christmas, staying in a hotel so he can get to the studio early in the morning on Boxing Day.

On December 23, as they’re sitting down to dinner—from the French restaurant where Stevie’d taken them for their second first date.

He waits until Jamie gets up to put their plates in the sink, and he follows behind him, and kneels on one old, achy knee.

“On this day a few years ago, I made a mistake,” he starts quietly, “I hurt you, and I’ve regretted it every day since. I’ve been trying to make things right, and I think we’ve done a pretty good job.” he asks with a little smile, holding out the ring. “Marry me again?”

Jamie grins at him, pulling him up to his feet. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees. He’s playing it cool, but his eyes look a little wet, and he can’t quite stop smiling.

Stevie slips the ring onto his finger, and they kiss. Jamie presses his face against Stevie’s neck, just as he did on their wedding day after being pronounced married. He’d been overwhelmed, and hidden from the world for a moment against Stevie’s skin, and Stevie had held him, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand in his hair, letting his new husband shelter against him for as long as he needed.

He does the same now.

Eventually Jamie pulls away, just slightly, still in Stevie’s arms and not showing any signs that he’s ready to leave.

“Why now?” he asks, still with a small smile on his face.

“I figured December 23rd was a pretty bad day for you. And I wanted to make it better. Now, maybe it can be a happy day, not a sad one.”

“If we get married again, we’re going to be on an equal footing,” Jamie says. “You’ve been spending so much time trying to make up for leaving—you don’t have to. I’m not going to throw it into your face if we have an argument. If you’re asking me to marry you just to make up for leaving—we don’t have to get married. We don’t. We’re happy as we are, Stevie. If you still want to get married, we’ll get married, but it’s going to be for us, and not for anybody else, okay?”

Stevie didn’t expect to get weepy, considering that he’s the one who proposed, but he feels tears welling up in his eyes. Because he _has_ felt that way, like for the rest of their lives, he’s going to be trying to make up for one mistake. He’s had dreams where Jamie leaves him, or dreams where they’re fighting and Jamie throws it back in his face, reminding him how cruel he’d been to a man he’d once professed to love.

“I still want to marry you,” Stevie whispers, because Jamie’s starting to look a little nervous, his warm smile wavering slightly.

“And I still want to marry you,” Jamie replies, squeezing him tight. “But first, I want to take you to bed.”

Unlike this day four years ago, this time, they climb into bed together, Jamie’s warm flesh against his. It’s probably the best night of sleep Stevie’s ever had.

\---  
  
“We don’t need to go _too_ crazy with this one, do we?” Jamie asks, a little warily. “We did the whole thing last time.”

It’s true that their first wedding was pretty close to perfect, a big affair with both families and a handful of close friends attending. Not only that, but the divorce had been kept pretty quiet, partially out of discretion, and partially because nobody wanted to bring up the pain of it. Jamie can’t remember telling more than a couple of people, and from there, the word had spread amongst the family so that everyone knew not to ask about Stevie anymore. Stevie’s family went through a similar thing, though they’d been more concerned about what on earth had made their son decide that a divorce would be a good idea.

Given that the wedding had been so celebrated, and the divorce so understated and largely undiscussed (at least to the faces of the couple involved), it seems logical to opt for a lowkey ceremony.

“No, of course not.” But part of Stevie _wants_ to do it again, the pristine suits, the flowers, the vows they’d written themselves, barely able to get the words out past the lumps in their throats. He wants something to prove to everyone that this time, it’s going to stick. He wants to wipe the look of caution off Jamie’s mother’s face.

He talks to his therapist about it. She asks him _why_ he wants a big wedding, and he realizes that it’s not _about_ Jamie, or himself. It’s about other people, trying to prove to people who aren’t a part of their marriage that it’s real and strong, and that it’ll last this time.

“Do you think a wedding’s going to change anybody’s mind about you or your relationship?” she asks him.

He shakes his head.

“So what do you want? What does Jamie want? Isn’t that the most important thing?” she nudges.

He nods, slowly. Jamie doesn’t want a big wedding, he’s said as much. Stevie does want it, at least he thought he did, but his reasons aren’t great when he says them out loud.

They don’t set a date. They keep meaning to, but Stevie’s got matches to prepare for and travel to, and Jamie’s got matches to watch and analyze, and he’s got to be up in London nearly every week for MNF.

The days just… slip by.

It’s on a night in that Stevie realizes. They’re just sitting together, watching _The Office_ and laughing at the same stupid jokes they laughed at a decade ago.

He doesn’t _really_ want a whole big wedding again, he thinks, looking at the dimples in Jamie’s face as he laughs. He still wants to prove that he’s here for good this time, but there’s no way to prove that during a wedding. He just has to wait and prove it every single day of their marriage.

“Do you want to get married this Wednesday?” he asks Jamie.

It’s abrupt, completely out of nowhere. Jamie’s got to go to the studio on Monday, Stevie’s team have a match on Tuesday in Hull, but by Wednesday, they’ll both be back at home.

Jamie considers the question.

“Yeah, alright.”

\---  
  


He wears a suit. So does Jamie, though he opts to forego the tie. Jamie’s always hated ties, Stevie thinks fondly. So does Stevie. It wouldn’t ever have occurred to him on his own, but it’s so simple to loosen the strip of silk around his neck, to undo a button or two. It lets him breathe so much easier—why hadn’t they skipped ties the first time?

They sign the paperwork. The justice of the peace tells them they can put the rings on each other’s fingers.

Stevie feels outside of his body, as if he’s hovering in the air above them. He takes Jamie’s ring into his hand. The first time he’d done this, his fingers had trembled with nerves. This time, they’re steady. Maybe steadier than they’ve ever been before. The ring goes onto Jamie’s finger. It’s the same one, bright and clean and polished, but still bearing all the little scratches from wear and tear over the years.

_It looks good on Jamie’s hand_, Stevie thinks.

“It looks good on you,” he says out loud, smiling crookedly.

“It better,” Jamie retorts, “because I’m not planning on taking it off.”

And just like that, Stevie’s back in his body, looking at the man he loves, and they’re getting married. Again.

He’d prepared himself to feel a little underwhelmed. After all, it feels a little bit… _pro forma_, just signing the documents to prove in a court of law the fact that they love each other. (Again.) There’s no cake, no personalized vows, no bow ties or best men.

But he feels the same rush of warmth inside him, the same feeling of the last piece of the puzzle clicking into place. He _loves_ this man, and _this man loves him_. There’s a rush of joy, and the closest thing Stevie can compare it to is winning a trophy. His feet itch to jump, or dance, and to manage the sudden surge of energy, he leans up to his toes and then eases back to the floor.

Jamie smiles at him, a soft, sweet, eye-crinkling smile. He knows exactly what Stevie’s feeling—it’s written all over his face. Jamie always sees through him. That smile lingers on his face as he picks up Stevie’s ring. His suit sleeve rides up a little and Stevie sees the Christmas present he got him, the glint of light off the round face and silver band. He knows the words that are carved into the back, pressed against Jamie’s skin nearly every waking moment.

He’s still staring at it, actually. Jamie clears his throat to catch his attention, and a moment later, he slips the ring onto his finger.

The justice declares them married. The kiss is far from their best—they’re both smiling too hard to give each other more than a chaste peck on the mouth.

Jamie reaches out and takes Stevie’s hand and intertwines their fingers.

Stevie’s looking forward to walking into the next chapter with him, and all the chapters after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who've made it this far--thank you so much for sticking with it and being patient with me. 
> 
> If I get a bit of peer pressure, I may write an AU of this story, because initially I had planned a very different plot for the reconciliation arc. That arc is still in my head, but if I can put it down on paper... Well, we'll see! ;)


End file.
